


Magnum Opus

by hbdtotheground



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate origin story for Ed's Riddler persona, Blow Jobs, Drunk Sex, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Let's just call it the corruption of S1 Ed, M/M, Not saying Oswald fucks the Riddler into existence, Season 1, Talk Machiavelli to me, but i'm also not NOT saying that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:06:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29298609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hbdtotheground/pseuds/hbdtotheground
Summary: Oswald has always had another presence in his life, a dark figure looming in the shadows and lurking in his thoughts. Imagine his surprise when he visits the GDPD to invite Jim Gordon to his club's opening and instead meets Edward Nygma, who is the spitting image of the specter in his mind.Or, an AU where Oswald is the one who hallucinates the Riddler.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma
Comments: 41
Kudos: 98





	1. Meet Cute

For as long as Oswald can remember, the Other has been a part of his life. He materializes like a specter, breathing devious words into the back of his neck, or flits in and out of reflections with his Cheshire grin, oozing with a twisted darkness that cannot be contained.

As a child, he chalked it up to his imagination, happy to finally have a friend, as imaginary as he may have been. As he reached his teenage years and the Other's presence never waned, he came to the realization that perhaps there was something very wrong with him. He tried to do research online, using the library computers to browse the internet for _causes of hallucinations_ , as though the search results would explain his particular illness. But without being able to visit a doctor—he and his dear mother were uninsured and psychiatrists were hardly an essential expense—there was no real diagnosis.

Regardless, the Other's existence is comforting more than it's unsettling, when Oswald chooses to disregard the possible psychosis that created him, and he is truthfully glad to have him. His peers, corporal as they may be, aren't nearly as interesting, nor are they as pleasant.

Though, that's to be expected of the company Oswald keeps. He aligns himself with mobsters and criminals, he can hardly expect anything more than transactional courtesy from them.

It's different with the Other, kinder. He never mocks him for his strange features or his new, unattractive limp, never raises a brow at his less savory tendencies, never questions his obsessive thirst for power. Instead, he uplifts and supports him, cackling mercilessly when he slits a throat and squealing his encouragement as visions of grandeur consume him. He even imparted some perfunctory first aid knowledge when Oswald emerged from Gotham's river following his reprieve at Jim Gordon's hand. Without that assistance, Oswald isn't sure his leg would have undergone the small bit of healing that it did; he's grateful his limp is not more pronounced and that his pain, while chronic, is minimal.

He owes a good deal to the Other, finding stability in his consistent presence as well as a trusted confidant. Oswald's inherent darkness isn't something shameful, but as much as he loves his mother, his true nature is not something she would understand. But the Other does, and he embraces all of Oswald's sharp, undesirable angles.

For the most part, Oswald and the Other maintain a perfectly appropriate symbiotic relationship. He appears most often in times of turmoil, indecision or fear, and his confidence and charm never fails to influence Oswald's own resolve. He slyly whispers clever little morsels in his ear as Oswald schemes, suggestions and ideas that help him betray his enemies and climb higher up the criminal underworld's bloody food chain. It's not as though Oswald can't accomplish these things on his own, his sharp mind is more than capable, but the Other contributes an indulgent panache that transforms a fairly straightforward plan into something delightfully dramatic. Oswald loves it.

There are moments, however, that are decidedly less appropriate, when Oswald is alone in the dark in his bed, taking himself in hand with images of the Other flashing behind his eyelids. When he silently pants with pleasure, biting his bottom lip raw to stifle his moans, at the feel of his fist flying over his cock at a furious speed and the fantasy that it's not his hand doing the work. When he imagines his gasping mouth stuffed full with the Other's cock, his throat stretched and breached far enough that he can shove his tongue out and lick messily at his balls. When he fucks himself on his own fingers, chasing an earth-shattering orgasm with the Other's name spilling from his lips like a hushed prayer— _Riddler, Riddler, Riddler!_

He's certain the Riddler can read his thoughts, but if he knows about these little sessions, perhaps having spied them from behind Oswald's eyes or maybe even from a dark corner of his room, he never says. For that, Oswald is grateful. 

Oswald pushes away the intrusive thoughts as he fiddles with his cross tie. Hovering over his shoulder in the dark reflection of the limo's tinted window, Riddler suggests a proper tie moving forward; he is, after all, a new club owner and needs to look the part. Nodding in acknowledgment, Oswald mentally files the idea away for another day. He has a number of more pressing things to attend to prior to the club's opening this evening.

But first, he has an important invitation to deliver, to one James Gordon.

Within thirty minutes he's at the GCPD, surveying the menial hustle and bustle between uniformed officers and low-level criminals with distaste. He receives a vague gesture toward the Captain's office from one of the officers when he inquires about Detective Gordon, and finds himself before what has to be Jim's desk, neat and orderly. It's an empty desk, unfortunately, but he can wait. 

Oswald briefly catches the eye of a gangly man in glasses but he has enough sense to turn his head and avert his gaze. He feels a momentary flash of pride in his ability to intimidate the other, but it's short lived as he turns away and immediately feels the weight of the man's stare return.

He chooses that moment to straighten his posture and leave Jim's area, stiltedly taking the steps down to the bullpen, but the man mirrors his movements from the other side of the room, now openly staring with an odd smile on his lips. Oswald tracks his path the entire way across the bullpen and stops in front of an administrator's desk, tense and ready to strike if needed. The man slides into his peripheral vision, silently joining him at his side.

The audacity of his act prompts Oswald to turn and confront him, not bothering to conceal his impatience with the man's strange behavior. "Can I help you?"

"I don't think so," he replies evenly to the thin air in front of him. Then he swivels his neck to the side with a perfectly polite smile painted across his face. "Can you?" 

For an instant, Oswald is struck dumb by the other man, closely taking in his features for the first time. The hair is all wrong, with a deep side part reminiscent of a school boy, and there's the addition of a pair of dated eyeglasses perched atop his nose, but there's no mistaking it—the man before him is the Riddler.

Or, his mirror image at least. He's tall and slim, standing at least a head taller than Oswald, dressed in a textured collared shirt that clashes with his patterned red tie underneath a coat that likely serves practical purposes more so than fashionable ones. _Forensics_ is printed on his GCPD name badge; a lab coat, then. The glasses are the most distracting of his ensemble, providing a pesky barrier between Oswald and the Riddler's deep brown eyes. And they're the same set of eyes, dark and deep-set beneath a strong brow bone. Oswald is gripped by a sudden desire to knock those silly glasses off the man's face but he dismisses the impulse immediately. That's not exactly the best first impression.

Oswald decides to humor the man, intrigued by his uncanny likeness to the one in his head. "What do you want?"

There's a mischievous sparkle in the other man's eyes as he responds. "What I want, the poor have, the rich need, and if you eat it you'll die."

Unbelievable, a _riddle_. But Oswald has heard this one before—he's younger, fairly new to the Falcone faction with no respect, no footing, no one to align himself with, and happens upon Fish Mooney's umbrella boy on his break in the back room, gasping unsuccessfully for air while gesturing frantically between his throat and his lunch; what should he do?—and he answers easily. "Nothing."

Based on his surprised expression, the man hadn't been expecting a guess, let alone the right one, but the astonishment quickly gives way to delight. "Correct!" His smile is inconveniently infectious; Oswald has to stop his own lips from curling upward of their own accord.

"Who are you?" he asks, not as unkindly as he means to.

"Edward," comes the immediate response. Then, after a beat, "Nygma."

E. Nygma. Oswald barely represses the eye roll that the pun elicits. This is a truly bizarre man.

"I know who you are," Edward continues in a singsong. "Did you know that male emperor penguins keep their eggs warm by balancing them on their feet? Isn't that neat?"

Oswald does roll his eyes this time, exasperated by the man's moniker-specific fact but oddly not irritated. "Oswald Cobblepot," he corrects.

Edward thrusts an open hand out in greeting, which Oswald considers but ultimately ignores. The bespectacled man seems to deflate as he lowers his rejected hand, but in a flash his eager smile is back. "And what brings you to the GCPD today, Mr. Peng...ah, Mr. Cobblepot?" he ventures.

"I came hoping to run into a friend." Oswald stops and reconsiders his choice of words. Jim Gordon, as much as it pains him to admit, is no friend of his. He gazes into Riddler's—no, Edward's—eyes and is taken aback by how hopeful and trusting they appear. Suddenly all thoughts of Gordon are thrown out the window and words are leaving his mouth before he can properly plan them. "And if I might be so bold to say it, I believe I may have succeeded in you."

The smile he receives in response is nearly blinding, and perhaps that's why Oswald's generosity increases tenfold. Spontaneously, he lifts the invitation still clutched in his hand between them, offering it to Edward face-up so that his name printed in ornate, silver letters is fully visible. "I am hosting a party this evening, Mr. Nygma, and I would like to personally invite you as my guest."

" _Oh my_." Edward's eyes grow to the size of dinner plates and after tucking his stack of filing folders under his arm, he reverently accepts the invitation with both hands. He takes just a second to flip it open and scan over the details inside, then closes it once more and slips it carefully into one of his folders. The man seems to be at a loss for words, something Oswald is certain does not happen often, and he can almost see the gears turn in his head as he tries to formulate a sufficient response.

Taking pity on Edward, Oswald simply nods up at him and ends their interaction with a pleasant if not expectant farewell. "I look forward to seeing you later tonight," he says in closing, and then strides past Edward to the exit. He feels Edward's gaze follow him and this time it's not unwelcome.

He has only made it a few steps before a flash of emerald green catches his attention and he pauses in his tracks. He looks up toward the staircase he had descended not ten minutes ago and finds the Riddler leaning casually against the banister, all long limbs and leisure. Something is off about him, but before Oswald can study him more closely, the man tips his bowler hat to someone descending from the second floor and disappears without a trace.

Oswald follows the direction of his salute and spies a tired-looking Jim Gordon. Their gazes connect immediately, and the displeased pinch of the other man's face further cements Oswald's newfound understanding of their relationship. The slight sting he feels is quickly replaced with a smug thrill that shoots through him when Jim seems to take notice of Edward, who is still standing several paces behind him. Perhaps he had witnessed the tail end of their conversation, or perhaps something obvious is written on Edward's open book of a face, because Jim narrows his eyes, his gaze flitting between them calculatingly. 

He must come to a conclusion of some kind, because he starts to make a beeline toward them, expression determined. Oswald can hear the squeak of Edward's worn dress shoes as he turns heel and hurries away to whatever dark lab houses him, and he takes the other man's lead, quickly climbing the steps leading to the front doors of the GCPD. When he risks a quick glance back, he sees Jim standing in the middle of the bullpen, indecisive about which man he should follow and shake down. He looks equal parts puzzled and vexed and it is really not a flattering look on him.

With a silent laugh, Oswald exits the building and slides into his awaiting car. It's not until he takes a look at his solitary reflection in the window that he realizes just what about the Riddler's appearance had been off: the man was sporting a brand new pair of horn-rimmed glasses.

* * *

Opening night is nothing short of a disaster. Between the low turnout, Maroni's unexpected attendance, and the general unenthused atmosphere, Oswald can say without a doubt that the night is an absolute failure.

By ten, most of the patrons have cleared out and he can't really blame them. Tomorrow, he will try even harder. But tonight, he plans to drown his sorrows in amber-colored liquor until he can no longer see what an utter disappointment his club is.

With a sigh, he pours himself two fingers of whiskey from the bottle he'd commandeered from the bar and absently swirls the liquid around his glass at eye-height. Someone joins him at his booth, a vague and disjointed form distorted through the textured glass of his lowball, and he's about to release the evening's ire on the fool who dared to enter his space without his permission when a familiar voice reaches his ears.

"Mr. Penguin, I apologize for my tardiness. I was called away to a scene and didn't realize it would take all night. It was an incredibly fascinating find, I must admit. The victim's face was fully tattooed, quite literally every inch of it covered, eyelids and lips included, and I determined the ink was deposited _postmortem_ —"

Oswald lowers his glass and lifts his free hand in a silencing gesture, stopping Edward from rambling before he can recite the entire case report. With one sweeping look at the man across him, he catalogues his visible nervousness, and beneath that, a genuine contrition. Feeling merciful, and truthfully a bit thankful, he curls his lips upward in what he hopes is a gracious smile. He redirects his gaze and makes meaningful eye contact with one of the bartenders, and immediately a second glass is delivered to their table. He pours the very tightly wound Nygma a serving of whiskey much taller than necessary, but if the other man notices, he doesn't mention it.

To his surprise and amusement, Edward takes the glass, tips it toward him in some kind of wordless cheers, and downs the entire drink in one go. The overwhelmed look of regret that passes over him immediately after swallowing forces a chuckle from Oswald and he refills his empty glass with a more appropriate amount of liquid. He takes a delicate sip from his own glass, enough to taste the cedar notes of this particular brand but not enough to burn his throat, hoping his example is enough of a hint for the other man. "I'm glad you came," he says finally, locking eyes with Edward.

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," Edward replies breathlessly. His voice a bit hoarse from the harshness of the whiskey and Oswald involuntarily shivers at its almost Riddler-like quality. "I admit, this is hardly my...scene, but an invitation from the Penguin is not one to be taken for granted." He seems to catch himself this time. "Or rather, from you, Mr. Cobblepot," he says hurriedly.

Oswald shrugs, his movements slightly heavy from the champagne he'd imbibed earlier in the evening. The moniker sounds good coming from Edward's lips, revered even. 

"I couldn't help but notice Jim Gordon's fixation on us earlier this afternoon. I imagine he had some questions for you?"

Edward lets out a breathy sigh, busying himself with a gulp of whiskey. It's nearly half the glass, but it's an improvement from his last attempt. "Yes, Detective Gordon had a rather stern word with me afterward...demanded to know the nature of our relationship."

Oswald chuckles. "And what did you tell him?" he asks, curious.

"The truth," Edward says simply, "that—"

"What, that we'd barely met that afternoon?"

"—we're friends."

There's a beat of awkward silence between them and Edward takes that moment to drain the rest of his glass. At this rate, he'll have had more to drink than Oswald, and within a much shorter timeframe.

Oswald recovers first, and finds that he's charmed by the man's easy acceptance. Most would have laughed off his hasty declaration of friendship, but Edward seems to have taken it to heart. "Of course," he agrees, filling Edward's now empty glass with just a finger of whiskey. "To new friends," he proposes, then lifts his crystal between them.

Edward nods warmly, touching his glass to Oswald's. "To new friends, Mr. Cobblepot," he echoes. The drink he takes this time is much more reserved and Oswald watches his Adam's apple bob as he swallows.

"I believe such formality can be shed amongst friends." Oswald feels daring despite the simplicity of this step forward. "Please, call me Oswald."

Edward's face splits into a wide grin, momentarily revealing two rows of neat teeth, but he schools his expression quickly, leaving just a closed-lip smile in its stead. "Edward," he offers in turn, "Ed."

"Well, Ed," Oswald responds, trying the new name out on his tongue, "do tell me more about our dear Jim's reaction."

Time passes faster than usual and Oswald notices at half past midnight that they are the last two left in the club, save for the staff. It's a stinging reminder of his unsuccessful opening night, but at least Edward's company is a soothing balm. Or perhaps it's the whiskey, based on the pleasant numbness of his mind. Quickly excusing himself from the booth, he limps to the bar and instructs the employees to shut down for the evening and lock up, though they'll be paid for their previously agreed-on number of hours. That seems to energize them and they begin working in earnest, scattering throughout the club to start clean-up.

When Oswald returns to the booth, he finds Edward slumped on the table top with his head in his arms. He'd cut the other man off after a fourth refill, but the effects of his quick consumption are still evident. "You don't drink often, do you?"

Edward's response is muffled and a bit slurred. "When ingested in moderation, ethyl alcohol is comfortably metabolized in the liver. Heavy drinking overwhelms the liver, and excess alcohol circulates through every organ in the body, including the brain."

"And tonight is not a night of moderation," Oswald surmises.

"No siree!"

With a sigh, Oswald stands at Edward's side and squints down at him. "I'm assuming you drove yourself here after work? Shall I arrange for a car to bring you home tonight?"

Edward, still face-down, lifts an arm and gestures in vague dismissal. "Went home first, then walked here. It's only fifteen minutes."

"Excellent, friend, the walk will do wonders for your...current state." Oswald pulls at Edward's freed arm, inexpertly manhandling him until he's sitting up straight again. He doesn't often touch other people, let alone people he's known for less than a day, but something about Edward is familiar and welcoming and he's uncharacteristically comfortable having his hands on him.

"Oswald, will you accompany me home?" Ed drawls, fixing him with a lazy smile that's too close to the Riddler's for comfort.

Oswald pauses. He really shouldn't be going to this man's home after they've both indulged in his top-shelf liquor, even if it's just to chaperone him in his inebriated state, but the idea of spending a bit more time with Edward is not undesirable. He thinks of the late hour and his leg, but neither is enough to dissuade him.

With about as much grace as a baby goat, Edward allows Oswald to help him to his feet and soon they are out in the chilly Gotham air. As predicted, the walk helps, transforming Edward's lethargy into an eager, uncoordinated hyperactivity. He speaks animatedly as they make their way to 805 Grundy, stumbling over his words as often as he stumbles over his own feet.

By the time they make it up to his apartment door, Oswald has been lectured on an array of strange and unrelated things, including the benefits, both practical and aesthetic, of sliding barn doors, the generalization of the term 'neon lighting', because gases _other than neon_ are needed to achieve all the different colors the general public tends to associate with neon lighting, the meticulous art of antique clock restoration, though cuckoo clocks specifically, and also pianos. When Edward unlocks his door and slides it open, revealing the inside of his loft unit in all its incongruous glory, the seemingly random assortment of topics make complete sense. 

Edward ushers him in wordlessly and shuts the door behind him. Without the illumination from the hallway lights, the apartment is dark save for the obnoxious green glow from a lit sign just outside the window. Oswald, unaware that he'd be accompanying Edward past the threshold, turns to him with a question on his lips—

Except now his lips are otherwise engaged, the weight of Edward's pressed beautifully against him. The kiss is soft, hesitant even, but when he gasps at the sudden contact, the other man's tongue immediately takes advantage of the unwitting invitation, slipping into his mouth and sliding experimentally against his own.

Oswald belatedly registers that Edward has him pushed up against the apartment door—an industrial version of the typical sliding barn door—bracketing him in with his larger frame. The realization of his compromising position sends a wave of arousal through him and he moans wantonly into Edward's mouth, thrusting his tongue out and wrapping his arms around the other man's neck. That seems to spur him on further and he presses himself flush against Oswald, insinuating a thigh roughly between his legs.

Some small and logical part of Oswald's brain urges him to stop and think about the consequences, but the rest of him doggedly ignores the suggestion, opting instead to rub himself shamelessly against Edward's thigh. He's making embarrassing noises now, high-pitched and needy, and Edward swallows them all hungrily, humming his approval.

Oswald tastes the whiskey in Edward's mouth and the flavor momentarily sobers him. Gripping the hair at the back of the other man's head with one hand, he breaks their kiss and gently pulls Edward back so that they have enough room to lock eyes. He's breathing heavily, lips wet, perfectly gelled hair askew, looking as desperate as Oswald feels.

"Ed, you've had a lot to drink," Oswald says quietly. "Tomorrow you might not...we shouldn't."

Edward studies him, gaze sharper than it's been since his first drink, then shakes his head and grips Oswald's hips—when had his hands gotten down there?—in a vice. "I want to," he insists, voice steady despite the alcohol. "It's why I approached you at work. It's why I came to your club tonight. I might be just the _slightest_ bit intoxicated, but I promise I'm of sound mind."

Oswald huffs a small laugh at Edward's understatement but nods his assent. "If you're sure."

A slow smile creeps onto Edward's face and he surges forward again, crowding back into Oswald's space to press their lips back together. Oswald is prepared this time, kissing the taller man back roughly and curling the fingers still laced in his hair tightly enough to elicit a low moan. Kissing the other man is exhilarating, his mouth is hot, wet and insistent, and he's nearly panting into Oswald's mouth with need. Oswald isn't much better off, craning his neck up to meet Edward's lips and still trying to press his lower half as close to him as possible. Those meddlesome hands are still glued to him, trapping him against the door, but he can feel the hardness grow between Edward's legs and _needs_ to move.

Edward doesn't seem to take notice of his predicament but he releases Oswald's hips and breaks their kiss for a moment, reaching his hand up to card through his disheveled hair and pushing it back and out of his face. Oswald is immediately struck by visions of the Riddler in his fantasies, hair perfectly slicked back and deep brown eyes darkened with lust, and his cock strains painfully against the front of his pants.

To his annoyance, Edward's glasses are fogged and crooked on his face and Oswald can't take it. With a snarl, he attaches his lips to the man's long column of a neck and peppers heated kisses across his skin, licking and biting with what little finesse he can muster at this time. Heady with the taste of Edward, he trails his mouth up to the shell of his ear. "Get rid of those ridiculous glasses and I'll reward you," he exhales, reaching down to cup the other man firmly in between his thighs.

Edward all but rips his glasses off his face and flings them somewhere behind him, ignoring the clatter as they hit the ground. 

Oswald delivers on his promise, sliding down the metal door and onto his knees. His right leg twinges briefly with pain, but it's dulled by the alcohol and even more so eclipsed by his own needy arousal. With impatient fingers he makes quick work of Edward's belt and pulls him out of his pants, mouth nearly watering at the idea of what's to come. Edward is perfect in every way and he runs the tip of his tongue along a particularly protruding vein that extends to the neat nest of curly brown hairs at his pelvis. Above him is a choked gasp and Oswald continues his hungry exploration, reaching around to grip Edward's ass in both hands as he mouths at the tip of his cock indulgently.

With an audible slurp, he swallows down Edward's length and sucks, pressing the flat of his tongue up against the bottom of his cock. He massages him in earnest, bobbing his head to create a loud, wet slide that sounds explicit even to his own ears. When he hollows his cheeks and takes Edward deep into his mouth again, the man's strangled moan is the only thing he hears. He glances up and drinks in Edward's wrecked state; he's hunched forward with his forearms pressed against the door, staring down at Oswald with hard, stormy eyes as if memorizing the scene before him.

The idea sends a rush of desire through Oswald and he brings his right hand down to the front of his own pants, palming himself shamelessly. The friction against his own aching erection and the fullness of his mouth force a low moan from his busy lips, muffled but no less desperate. He does his best to keep their gazes locked, but his eyelids screw shut when Edward cants his hips forward suddenly and pushes the head of his cock down Oswald's throat, stretching him painfully and causing him to sputter for air.

The guttural noise that escapes Edward's lips is worth it and Oswald gasps in a hurried breath before forcing himself back down the other man's cock, holding it at the base with his unoccupied hand and correcting the angle of his descent so that he can take more of Edward into his throat with much more control.

The other man is losing it quickly above him, panting Oswald's name in between breathy moans, trying to control the shallow, jerky thrusts of his hips. One hand comes down to Oswald's cheek, holding him almost tenderly as he fills his mouth with his cock. 

Needing more, Oswald coaxes Edward's hand to the back of his head. He releases Edward's length for a moment, speaking with his lips against the tip and staring up into the man's dark eyes through his lashes. "Fuck my mouth." It's a command, despite his vulnerable position, and Edward lets out a long, low groan in response.

Oswald lowers his hand as if in submission, settling back on his knees and pressing his head back into Edward's palm against the metal door behind him. Edward stares down at him with intense eyes, then curls his hand to firmly hold him steady as he pushes his hips forward. He presses himself back into Oswald's open mouth, slowly and purposefully, and Oswald lets him, wrapping his lips tightly. There's some resistance when Edward reaches the back of his throat but he breathes in deeply through his nose and wills himself to relax.

Above him, Edward lets out a low whine as he sheathes himself fully, pausing only once Oswald's nose presses against his pelvis. Oswald tries to keep a steady head despite the inability to breathe and his painfully stretched throat. Trembling from the effort, he reaches down to undo his own belt, desperate to touch himself.

The clink of metal seems to pull Edward out of his concentrated spell. His grip tightens in Oswald's hair and he pulls his hips back just to slam them forward again forcefully, reclaiming Oswald's throat with a rough groan. He finds a furious pace and Oswald has to struggle to keep up, frantically gasping for air in between moments of suffocation. He matches the speed of his hand with Edward's thrusts, his own pleasured moans stifled by the assault on his mouth.

Oswald can tell Edward is quickly nearing orgasm. He can feel it in the other man's frenzied movements and he can hear it in his cracking voice as he babbles Oswald's name in between expletives. He stares up at the other man as best as he can, reveling in the man's hungry expression as he watches Oswald's messy display. There's saliva dribbling from his lips and tears running down his cheeks but the other man seems to take enjoyment in the sight. Oswald would let this man wreck him if that's what he wanted, and he groans at the thought of it.

Edward is holding his hair in an almost painful grip now, panting with pleasure. "Swallow it," he hisses, hips stuttering. That's all the warning he gives before he comes with Oswald's name on his lips, his cock pulsing deep down his throat. He manages to pull out a bit at the end and Oswald catches the last of his cum on his tongue as he tries to regain his breath. He moans around Edward's cock and continues to fist himself wildly, incredibly turned on by the other man's display of dominance and aching for his own release.

With a growl, Edward rips him off his cock with a wet pop and pulls him up by the hair back onto his feet. He shoves the fingers of his free hand into Oswald's spent mouth, then takes his hand back to lick a broad stripe up his palm. With laser focus trained on Oswald's dazed face, he knocks Oswald's hand off his cock and takes its place, wrapping his large hand around his length and resuming his fast pace. "God that was so, so good," Edward pants, his voice reverent, almost astonished. "I can't believe you let me come in your mouth." He crooks his wrist with each pull of Oswald's cock, twisting at the head in a way that has him seeing stars. 

Oswald is embarrassingly close already, his orgasm having built up with each rough thrust of Edward's cock down his throat, and the wet slide of the other man's hand is absolutely heavenly. He finds that even Edward's hushed words and his intense gaze are helping to hurtle him to climax and he fights to maintain eye contact.

"I should have come all over your face," Edward breathes. Suddenly overwhelmed by the sensations and the added imagery, Oswald comes hard, eyes screwing shut in pleasure. Edward's name is on his lips but the other man suffocates it with a searing kiss and works him through his climax, jerking his cock with his talented hand until he's stopped spurting his seed between them. With one last groan, he pulls away from Edward's lips and pants heavily, eyeing the other man with careful wariness, his head now startlingly sober and reflective with the suddenness of their act.

Edward merely grins back at him, sweetly kissing him at the corner of his mouth as if he hadn't just fucked it roughly a moment ago. He reaches down to tuck himself back into his pants and Oswald does the same in silence, still trying to steady his breathing and wrap his head around what they've done.

"It's late. Do you want to spend the night?" Edward offers, back to his perfectly polite self.

It hardly seems appropriate to Oswald—but then again neither was letting Edward skull fuck him—and he shakes his head. "No, I'd better take my leave." He wipes his mouth with his sleeve and does his best to scrub at the dried tear tracks on his face. Luckily he opted for a makeup-less look this evening and doesn't need to bother with trying to rub away smeared mascara.

Edward studies him with interest before nodding. "The Romans wrote me using letters, but the Western world prefers an Arabic system better. What am I?"

Oswald gapes at the other man, though he's sure the orgasm probably released all kinds of smart chemicals in Edward's brain, so he can't really blame him. Heaving a sigh and shrugging, he ventures, "A number?"

Edward's smile is all teeth. "Correct! I'd like to have yours. Your telephone number," he clarifies as an afterthought. Then he ducks his head and looks unsure of himself, as if debating if he's asked for too much.

Oswald feels a chuckle bubble at his throat but he stops himself in time, lest the other man take his laughter the wrong way. Really, he's already taken his pleasure from Oswald, and given it in turn; a phone number is of no consequence. Hiding a fond smile, he stretches his hand out, palm up. "Your phone?"

Edward scrambles in his haste to retrieve his cell phone from his pocket, thrusting it eagerly at Oswald, and then whirls away to retrieve his glasses from where they'd fallen on the ground behind him.

Oswald inputs his phone number and hands Edward's device back to him when he returns. The other man's glasses had been perfunctorily wiped and his hair is a bit unruly and curled from sweat. It's an endearing sight.

"Good night, Edward," he says simply.

Echoing the farewell, Edward reaches past him to open the door and Oswald slips out into the hallway. They don't share a kiss good-bye, but it's not an unnatural way to part. Oswald takes his leave and limps down the hallway to the rickety lift. He hears the metallic slide of Edward's door only once the elevator doors begin to close and imagines that he stayed frozen in the threshold watching him leave.

Oswald calls for a driver on the sidewalk outside of Edward's apartment. The streetlights flicker above him and he decidedly ignores the presence that looms behind him. It presses closer until he can almost feel a hot breath against his skin.

"You and I are not talking about this," Oswald finally says, craning his neck to lock eyes with the Riddler and fixing him with a dark scowl.

Riddler merely grins in response, unaffected, and takes a dramatic step back to put space between their bodies. He regards him cheekily through horn-rimmed glasses. "What's there to talk about, Ozzie? I like him," he lilts, the arrogance of his statement not lost on either of them. "I think we should keep him."

Oswald rolls his eyes in response, but allows a small smile to break through. "I think so too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I drink when I write. This idea and the resulting fic are produced courtesy of White Claws. The claw is the law.


	2. Stan

Edward wakes with a start, ripped from dead sleep by the excessive screech of his alarm clock. He reaches a heavy arm out from under his covers and silences it, groaning as the noise seems to continue ringing in between his ears. He blearily opens his eyes but has to immediately shut them when the natural sunlight streaming through his windows drives daggers through his pupils. Perhaps that's an exaggeration, but he is in no shape to be awake right now.

He takes a labored breath in and reluctantly takes stock of his faculties. His head is pounding with a raging headache, his body is sluggish, dehydrated and achy, and the inside of his mouth is so abhorrent that he suspects he might have gargled the contents of a fast food dumpster. He decides then whiskey is not his friend, and swears off it entirely.

Edward just hopes he didn't do or say anything too embarrassing in front of Oswald while inebriated last night. He's not known to have a particularly high alcohol tolerance, but just sitting across from the other man had him so jittery and anxious that he imbibed more eagerly than he should have, hoping the alcohol would lessen his nerves. It worked at first, and he found his tongue was loosened enough to have an actual conversation with the man, but not loose enough to allow his words to get away from him like they usually do. He's been told his penchant for long-winded facts is annoying, and he would never want to annoy Oswald Cobblepot.

But somehow Oswald tolerated his company, _enjoyed_ it even. Edward had never felt so at ease in another person's presence before, someone who actually listened to what he had to say instead of just mowing over him and urging him to get to the point. Oswald also didn't give off the impression that he was _allowing_ Edward to talk about this or that, like some of his more polite but still condescending colleagues tend to do. He was appropriately invested, and then tactfully redirected the conversation to another topic when it was clear he no longer understood or was no longer interested. When Edward did find himself on a bit of a tangent, there were no snappy remarks or muttered insults, just validating acknowledgments and even some light banter.

Edward wonders if that was what having a conversation with someone who respected him was like. He loathes that it's admittedly foreign ground for him.

Regretfully, the speed of his alcohol consumption caught up with him and too soon he found himself folded onto the table like a paper doll. Oswald was a perfect gentleman, even offering to have him chauffeured home.

After that, the memories become fuzzy, and Edward has to struggle to recall them. He doubles his efforts by attempting to lift himself out of bed to start his day. When he finally sits up and finds the strength to swing his legs around to the edge of his mattress, the room spins and his stomach lurches at the sensation. Luckily it passes and he reaches for his glasses, but notices there's a faint scratch on one of the lenses. 

Edward frowns. He's usually quite fastidious about his belongings, and his glasses are no exception. He would never just carelessly drop them—

Vividly, he recalls Oswald's salacious promise, whispered with a hot breath into his ear, and his own immediate, needy reaction, making quick work of his glasses and basically _throwing_ them to the floor in his haste to comply. The memories suddenly come to him in dark, blurry flashes and he furrows his brows in concentration to slow them down and make sense of them. It takes a few minutes, but Edward remembers.

He remembers being so bold as to invite Oswald to his apartment, remembers the nervous anticipation crackling through his limbs during their walk, remembers the hesitation he felt right before the liquid courage in his system propelled him forward to instigate a kiss with the other man. Then, he remembers everything else after and his entire body flushes with warmth.

No, they hadn't really done all that, had they? His supposed dalliance with Oswald has to be some hyperrealistic wet fantasy his overactive mind dreamt up while asleep. 

Edward tugs at his collar, suddenly hot underneath the fabric, and only then notices he didn't bother to change out of his clothes from the night before. Looking down at his crumpled button-up shirt, he spies crusted streaks of ejaculate staining the front. Not a dream then, he realizes with utter amazement. 

After a hasty shower, three glasses of water, two ibuprofen tablets, and a twenty minute drive that he isn't quite mentally present for, Edward somehow makes it to the GCPD, albeit a few minutes late. He must look as horrible as he feels, because the desk sergeant he passes on the way to his work area does a double take at the sight of him. He attempts a feeble smile but it falls off his face as soon as she's out of his line of vision.

Trudging to his desk, dragging his heavy, traitorous body, he lets his thoughts wander back to Oswald. His chance encounter at the GCPD yesterday with the infamous Penguin was nothing like he'd anticipated, and truly that was a gift. He assumed the man would brush him off, or that he'd say say something to run him off; both instances happen enough in his day-to-day life that it's become his standard expectation for most social interactions.

Despite that, Edward _needed_ to meet the man, even if just to be in the presence of what he considered to be the most intelligent and beguiling criminal in Gotham.

Collectively dismissing him as the weird forensics scientist obsessed with riddles, Edward's colleagues didn't really pay him any mind. That often meant many were careless about what they said in front of him, if they even noticed him nearby at all. And that's how he learned the name Oswald Cobblepot. 

At first, he'd just been a faceless Major Crimes Unit victim, but then Edward caught wind that the top suspect for his murder was Detective _Gordon_. That tidbit of information was wonderfully scandalous and Edward tried to understand what about Oswald Cobblepot was so heinous that their golden boy saw fit to kill him off. Based on his file, he'd been taken in for questioning for multiple Carmine Falcone-related cases, but the investigations were always desultory in nature considering the Don's influence in the GCPD. Before that, in his early twenties, the man was the victim of an assault near the Narrows. The perpetrators were never apprehended.

His findings weren't enough to keep him intrigued and he had dropped the matter entirely until the MCU caused a ruckus one day trying to arrest Jim Gordon and Harvey Bullock in connection to the murder. _Trying_ was the imperative word, because with impeccable timing, the very much alive Oswald Cobblepot made his showstopping entrance in their foyer. Every head turned and every person in the station went silent, and Edward, with his front row seat right in the middle of the bullpen, was immediately awestruck. He'd never seen a man command an entire room with so much elegance in so few words, and even as the station roared back to life, Oswald had remained delicately above it all.

Edward's curiosity returned tenfold after that day. He simply had to know everything about this fascinating man and he threw himself into the task with almost obsessive determination. He kept his ear to the ground for months, listening for the inevitable chatter. He worked overtime and increased his caseload just to have an excuse to insert himself beside a variety of detectives. He skulked around the most crooked cops who would no doubt have the most Penguin-relevant information for him to overhear.

His skulking sometimes brought him to the records annex, where Detective Arnold Flass and his crew often congregated due to the detective's romantic involvement with Ms. Kristen Kringle. How such a beautiful woman could associate herself with such a gorilla, as brutish as he was corrupt, Edward would never know. He'd on occasion considered attempting to court the pretty archivist himself, perhaps crafting a riddle for her or maybe writing her a love note. If Edward's focus wasn't so singularly devoted to his Penguin endeavor, he certainly might have.

By the end of his investigation, he had identified nineteen GCPD employees who were also on the payrolls of either Don Falcone or Don Maroni, and their combined whispers weaved a brilliant story of the Penguin's quick rise to power, revealing his mastery of deception, his steadfast endurance, his cruel wit. Penguin was clever, graceful and ambitious, everything Edward aspired to be.

So when the man entered the GCPD yesterday, Edward knew he couldn't let the opportunity to formally meet him pass him by. Never in a million years could he have foreseen the successful nature of their introduction; the man _answered his riddle_ and _invited him to his party_ , truly an unpredictable puzzle of a person. He was originally drawn to the mystery of Oswald, then kept enthralled by his hero worship of the Penguin, but the thing that tipped his objective fixation into full-blown attraction was small and simple: the man had been kind to him.

Perhaps that's why Edward made such a brazen overture, inviting Oswald to accompany him home. He was intoxicated, yes, but even more than that he was drunk with the idea that someone would show him kindness, that a man like Oswald might actually _like_ him.

And the events that followed, well, those certainly helped to cement the suspicion.

Edward feels another full-body blush overtake him at the mere memory of his night. He's grateful to be seated, because it would be wildly inappropriate for him to stand up in his current state. He takes a full minute to breathe and rid his head of such distracting thoughts, focusing instead on his next steps pertaining to one Oswald Cobblepot.

Popular culture dictates a three-day waiting period between the first date and the subsequent follow-up. He and Oswald talked over drinks, shared a stroll, and then had non-penetrative sex against the door of his apartment. Edward doesn't consider that a date, but then again that's not really his area of expertise.

Ultimately, Edward makes it less than twelve hours before he gives into impulse and dials Oswald's number at the tail end of his lunch break. After the second ring, he ends the call and quashes the strong urge to fling his phone at the wall, instead forcing himself to place it carefully on his desk. He's already scratched his glasses, he can't add his phone to the list of 'belongings battered in association with Oswald Cobblepot'. 

How desperate of him. Surely he could have waited a full day before trying to contact him. The Penguin isn't sitting around waiting for a call from somebody like Edward Nygma. 

The clack of heeled footsteps reaches his ears and soon the familiar face of Dr. Leslie Thompkins fills his vision. She's the GCPD's new Medical Examiner, hired to fill the second shift in Dr. Guerra's absence, but he already considers her much more capable and trustworthy than the crotchety Guerra.

"Afternoon, Ed!" she chirps, her smile wide and effortlessly pleasant. "You seem to be doing better." She must see the confusion on his face, because she gives him a sly look. "Oh don't make me say it. You were a complete wreck this morning. I watched you pour half and half and sugar into your water."

"I suspected something was off about my coffee," Edward mumbles offhandedly. The morning was something of a blur, though he does have a vivid memory of Detective Bullock insinuating that he'd throw him off a roof.

She laughs, but something about it assures Edward it's not at his expense. "I've got the Adam Jodowsky file for you. It's Dr. Guerra's case, but he won't be in until later and I figured you'd want to get a head start on it. I noticed you always add some great annotations and insights to the other M.E. reports you've worked on."

Dr. Thompkins has a file in her hand and attempts to hand it off to him, but Edward shakes his head quickly. She's new and clearly isn't aware of the rather _hands-on_ approach he takes to get to those insights. He wonders if she'd approve.

"Oh, I apologize Dr. Thompkins, but I really shouldn't be _interfering."_ It's not his preferred verbiage but Guerra had been insistent when he blathered on to Captain Essen, not for the first time, about the inappropriateness of Edward's involvement with the corpses on his slab. A formal complaint had been filed, also not for the first time. "Captain's orders. When it comes to the M.E.'s office, I'm no longer permitted to poke around," he continues. It sounds petulant even to his ears, but if the downturn of her lip is any indication, she seems to sympathize.

"First of all, please, call me Lee. And second of all, totally fine, but I'm still leaving this here with you. You can add your findings on the forensics end." Lee places the case file on his desk beside his discarded phone. "Gotta run—I have a meeting with the morgue director to prepare for."

Edward watches Lee leave with clinical interest. She's thoughtful and good-natured, she makes an effort to talk to him, and she wears a very pleasant perfume. He would be much happier working closely alongside her than with Guerra, who harbors very overtly negative feelings toward him. Edward can't help it that he's a curious man, no more than he can help the fact that his meticulous attention to detail often catches things the stubborn M.E. misses.

He looks down at the Jodowsky file, but a sudden notification from his phone redirects his attention. The sight of _Oswald's phone number_ and the little envelope icon above it nearly stops his heart. With an unsteady hand, he picks up his phone and stares at the screen, his mind racing with the possibilities of what the text message might say. Edward's anxiety skyrockets when a second text message comes in shortly after.

His entire body tense, he hesitantly opens the first message. The text is short and reveals nothing, and it's utterly perfect.

<< _Mr. Nygma_

The second message is shorter still and fills Edward with an indescribable joy.

<< _?_

Edward exhales the breath he didn't know he'd been holding and stares wide-eyed at the question mark, feeling positively giddy. That such an unremarkable symbol could elicit such warmth inside of him, such a feeling of _wholeness,_ is incredible. He doesn't even agonize over his response, too thrilled to hold himself back.

>> _Correct!  
_ >> _What can't you have for breakfast and lunch?_

Five minutes pass—Edward has to stop himself from counting the seconds—before Oswald responds.

<< _8:00pm tomorrow, at the club. Don't be late this time_

Edward knows he's being ridiculous, smiling down at the screen like a lovestruck teenager, but it can't be helped. He fires off an affirmative text, puts his phone down, picks it back up, grins at it, then puts it down again. He's alive and energized, buzzing with unrestrained excitement. If anything, he's a bit too wired. He might just burst with the amount of energy tingling through him. He stands, but that just results in frantic pacing. He needs a distraction, something to take his mind off how deliriously pleased he is. _Anything_ would be a welcomed diversion.

His eyes find the Jodowsky case file once more and he snatches it up off his desk. The surgical cut he documented on the victim's body was certainly peculiar, and he'd like to confirm if his assessment that the killer was looking for something is correct. This is as good a distraction as any, he decides, and begins his descent down to the M.E.'s lab.

That's where Guerra and Captain Essen later find him, wrist deep in the victim's abdomen. He stares at them with wide eyes, gloved fingers frozen inside of Jodowsky's corpse. "Crud."

Edward is promptly suspended, though he appreciates the soft look Captain Essen sends him before she walks out of the lab all the same. After peeling off his gloves and removing his surgical gown, he returns to his desk to collect his things. Truthfully he's not too torn up about the situation—his suspension will only be indefinite for as long as it takes for the bodies to pile up, and considering the city he lives in, he's certain to return in no time—but it does peeve him that Guerra managed to get the drop on him. The man is a thorn in his side like no other.

While tidying his desk, Edward uncovers a small stack of case files he'd signed out of the archives several days ago. Ms. Kringle will have his head if he doesn't return them before he leaves, so he gathers them up and hurries to the records annex.

Ms. Kringle isn't alone when he arrives. Flass's crew, devoid of their jailed leader, are around her and Edward can see the visible discomfort on her face at their presence. He clears his throat, hovering in the threshold and pushing his glasses up his nose. All eyes turn to him and he's taken aback by Ms. Kringle's relieved expression; it's very dissimilar from the face she usually makes when she sees him.

"Ms. Kringle, I've come to return these case files," he announces. "Also to tell you I've been suspended, so I won't be seeing you." He adds the last part as an afterthought.

The detectives exchange furtive glances. As though choreographed, they slink away from Ms. Kringle and cross the room to approach him instead.

"Nygma," White booms with false familiarity, "just the guy we were hoping to talk to." Edward doubts that very much. "One of the patrols spotted you late last night walking into Fish Mooney's old place. That true?"

Edward eyes him distrustfully. It's hardly their business what he does outside of work hours, but he answers automatically. "Yes, I was there. I'd received an invitation."

The detectives share another look and McVay speaks next. "You know who runs it now, right? Her old umbrella boy, Penguin?"

Some small, sarcastic part of Edward wants to tell them yes, he's quite _acquainted_ with Penguin, thank you very much, but he holds his tongue diligently and nods instead. "I'm aware of Oswald Cobblepot, yes. He was the one who extended my invitation." He wonders where this line of questioning is going.

The third detective, Griffin, laughs suddenly. "You son of a bitch, Nygma, who knew you had it in you!" He spares a cursory glance back at Ms. Kringle before lowering his voice. "Listen, we want in on Penguin and you're the guy who's going to make it happen for us. Obviously we're going to expect more than whatever he's paying you, but I'm sure you understand why. Whatever little...evidence tampering scheme you're in charge of is small stuff compared to what we can bring to the table. He's new to the scene, he's going to need some big guns here at the GCPD."

It takes a moment for Edward to wrap his mind around what Griffin is suggesting. "You think I—" He snaps his mouth shut, deciding otherwise. "What is always coming but never actually arrives? What falls but never breaks?" At their unimpressed looks, he quickly supplies the answer. "Tomorrow and night. I'll be meeting with Penguin tomorrow night and I can pass along the message then."

That seems to satisfy them and they take their leave. White claps him roughly on the shoulder, a completely alien display of camaraderie, and Edward's knees buckle. When he rights himself and looks up, Ms. Kringle is staring at him with surprise splayed openly across her pretty face. He approaches her with the case files and holds them out to her expectantly. She doesn't take them.

"I must say that was a very shocking thing to overhear." She stares at him from under long, curled lashes, but it's not with the same iciness her eyes usually hold. "Are you really in that criminal's pocket?"

"Of course not, I'm not on anyone's payroll. That was their assumption, I just chose not to correct it." Edward shrugs easily, still holding the folders out at arm's length. "Playing into it seemed like the fastest way to get them to leave you alone."

Ms. Kringle smiles at him and Edward finds it's the first one directed at him that actually reaches her eyes. "That was...that was very sweet of you," she says hesitantly, finally taking the offered files. "Thank you, Mr. Nygma." 

"No thanks necessary," Edward says quickly. "They were making you uncomfortable, I recognized the look on your face when I came in. I've been on the receiving end of it a number of times—oh there it is again."

Ms. Kringle's pinched expression wipes away immediately and she lets out an embarrassed giggle. "Well, in any case, I appreciate you stepping in. And quick thinking with the whole 'meeting Penguin tomorrow night' part, you had us all convinced!" Her voice is playful, lacking that clipped tone she usually takes with him.

Edward pauses, then decides against omission. "Oh, but that part was true," he confesses, sounding more self-satisfied than he intends.

Ms. Kringle's eyebrows rise and her mouth falls open. "Are you telling me...?" When Edward tips his head leadingly and meets her gaze head-on, she gasps. "Mr. Nygma! _No."_

Edward relishes in the fact that this is the first time he's managed to elicit something other than annoyance from her. "Ms. Kringle," he responds steadily, eyes sparkling. _"Yes."_

She fixes him with a scandalized look before the pretense quickly fades and is replaced with an impish smile. "What rotten luck that you've been suspended, just when you started to get interesting," she gibes airily. "It seems that you and I have a bit of a thing for bad boys."

Edward sighs, lips quirking to match her smile. "You have no idea."

* * *

Edward arrives to their dinner one hour early. The sight that greets him when he rounds the corner of the bar is unexpected, to say the least. In the background, club patrons are standing and facing him with looks of horror on their faces. In the foreground, Oswald is holding the neck of a shattered wine bottle, standing over the still figure of a man on the floor. There's blood everywhere, splattered on the ground, on Oswald, and on the faces of the customers closest to the scene.

Edward is frozen, eyes roving over Oswald's fingers, claw-like in their clench around the bottle, up the cut of his three-piece suit, wet with blood spatter, and stopping on his face, contorted in an icy sneer. He reminds himself to breathe.

Oswald meets his gaze unapologetically, then drops the remnants of the bottle. At the sound, the club seems to come back to life. The patrons edge back to their seats, the performers on the stage are ushered away, and a server in a red velvet jacket provides small towelettes to those splashed with blood. Just another night in Gotham.

"You're early," is all Oswald says, gaze now unreadable.

Edward swallows thickly, then looks down at the man on the floor. The victim sustained a cranial injury caused by blunt force trauma. Lethal. "You said not to be late," he manages to reply, trying to keep his voice as steady as possible.

Oswald concedes with small nod, then motions to two goons standing by. He steps unceremoniously over the dead man and they get to work behind him, clearing away the body in a swift, practiced way. Breaking their eye contact, he passes Edward and makes his way to a set of stairs by the entrance.

Edward, unsure of what to do next, turns and follows him silently. Something curls tightly in his belly as he ascends the stairs, but he presses on, locating an open doorway and stepping through it in pursuit of the other man. The room he finds himself in is scantily furnished with just a nightstand and a large bed, which he's certain has had its fair share of traffic, and he can hear Oswald moving around in the adjoining en suite.

Heart thrumming wildly in his chest, he sits at the end of the bed and waits. When Oswald emerges from the bathroom, his face is clean of blood and he's wearing just his dress shirt, untucked and undone to the third button. There's red splashed only in the small triangle of fabric that hadn't been covered by the rest of his outfit, and the vivid staining contrasts jarringly against the pristine whiteness of his shirt.

"Like what you see?" Oswald finally says, his attempt at levity failing terrifically.

"You killed that man down there." Edward's voice is even, perfectly matter-of-fact, but his hands twitch in his lap.

"I have a room full of witnesses who know to say otherwise. But between you and I, he deserved it for disrespecting someone I hold dear to my heart." Oswald doesn't elaborate further, and after a moment's hesitation he moves to sit next to Edward. "Are you a good man, Ed?"

"I'd like to think I am, yes." He laces his fingers together tightly to stop the tremors and breathes through his nose.

"You and I do not have that in common, then. You know who I am, you said it yourself when we met. If that's really the case then you know what I _do,_ what I'm capable of."

Edward nods slowly, his entire body tense. "Truth be told, I wasn't expecting to witness it in person tonight."

Oswald exhales, his bright blue eyes earnest as they drill holes into him. "You know you can just go, right? You don't have to stick around. This is hardly the evening you thought it was going to be." He laughs bitterly.

Edward forces a short laugh as well. "Yes, I'd say murder is more third date material." The joke falls flat and he clears his throat. "Oswald, I'm going to be honest right now, because I don't intend to walk away from you but I also don't want you to think I'm fully alright with what happened down there. 

"You've been an idea to me for such a long time that it's difficult to reconcile the image of you I had in my mind with the you in front of me. I knew you worked your way to where you are now, deceiving and outsmarting everyone in your way, but I conveniently erased the more unsavory, violent parts of that journey." He catalogues Oswald's barely discernable flinch and presses on.

"Then I found myself face-to-face with the aftermath of that violent you, and it was...unsettling. When I came in and realized what I'd walked into, the only thing that really registered in my mind was you. And you looked..."

"Barbaric? Deranged?"

"Powerful," Edward breathes instead, removing one hand from his lap and reaching out to rest it on Oswald's thigh. He sucks in a quick breath, still reeling from the memory. "There was a dead man bleeding on the floor and the only thought in my head was how luminous you looked, standing over him. You took his life into your hands and you ended it, and I'm unsettled by how appealing the idea is to me."

Oswald's breath catches in his throat and he stares at Edward with utter wonder. "And...just how appealing is it?" he asks, his hand hesitantly coming down to cover Edward's.

Wordlessly, Edward leads Oswald's hand to his lap, maintaining their eye contact all the while, and presses it in between his legs. He's a bundle of nervous energy, half-hard and disturbed by his own body's reaction to the scene downstairs, but the mere pressure of Oswald's hand over his zipper relieves some of his tension and he groans at the feeling.

Oswald's wonder transforms into shock, then bleeds into devious delight. "Oh Edward Nygma, I don't think you're a good man at all."

Deafened by the sound of his own blood pumping in his ears, Edward lets Oswald press him back onto the bed and allows himself to be swept away by the absolute hurricane of a man above him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, writing season 1 Ed is such a challenge! I just want him to be dashing and flamboyant already, yeesh.
> 
> BUT, at least we can avoid his cringe-worthy attempts at wooing Kristen. Not quite sure what I plan to do with her yet but I'm happy our baby boy will have a friend. Also, I'm messing with the timeline a bit, so we've got some Lee Thompkins a bit earlier than canon too.


	3. Little Death

They've known each other for only three days now, but Oswald wonders if there will ever come a day where Edward Nygma fails to take him by surprise. Trying to understand the man is proving to be harder than he anticipated.

After their chance meeting at the GCPD and their admittedly enjoyable time at the club, Oswald decided Edward was just an odd, nervous man with a loose understanding of social decorum, a passive nobody who always stayed in line and did not rock the boat. The man did reveal (in shocking detail) that he was impressed by Oswald's cleverness and wile, but there was no indication that he had anything other than an intellectual admiration for him. Edward was harmless; eager but predictable. Then, the man pressed him up against his apartment door and instigated what was possibly the hottest sexual encounter of Oswald's life.

The man is attracted to him, fine, excellent. Oswald could think of worse things on earth than Edward's hands and mouth searing every inch of his skin with hot desire, than his focused gaze memorizing his every sound, twitch and facial expression during orgasm. So when Edward asked him to dinner, ridiculously using a riddle of all things, he accepted without pause.

Oswald can see himself spending more time with this awkward, mild-mannered man with a penchant for word games, maybe coming over to his place from a long day of managing the club—and moonlighting on the side with his schemes to take down the Dons—to find Edward puttering away in the kitchen over a romantic candle-lit meal for them, the perfect image of all-American domesticity. Edward would talk about whatever crime scene he processed that afternoon and Oswald would nod and pretend it was unrelated to his own criminal dealings. Edward is a fine and upstanding member of the GCPD, after all, a man of the law.

Except, the man has thrown him for a loop once again, apparently thrilled by the idea of Oswald murdering someone in cold blood. Oswald vividly recalls Edward's face when he stumbled upon the aftermath of his mother's heckler's punishment, how he was transfixed by the bloody bottle in his hand and had to visibly force himself to meet Oswald's gaze. He remembers the widening of the other man's eyes and the gape of his open mouth, the way his entire body tensed as he surveyed the bloody scene, all telltale signs of horror and repulsion.

Never would Oswald have guessed the real reason behind the Edward's reaction.

But it's more than evident now, what with Edward writhing underneath him, huffing out frantic breaths and raking blunt nails down his back. Their shoes had been discarded at some point and they'd migrated further up on the bed, allowing him to sprawl himself over the nearly endless expanse of Edward and press their bodies flush. Oswald brings their lips into another rough kiss, slipping his tongue into the wet heat of Edward's mouth with a low groan.

The stiff bulge in between Edward's legs tells Oswald he's fully hard now, and Oswald is quickly getting there, too, rolling his hips insistently and creating a delicious friction between them. He could probably get himself off like this, rutting against Edward like an overly enthusiastic teenager, heady with the satisfying knowledge that the man had become aroused not by his touch but by the mere image he presented. _Powerful_.

Breaking their kiss, Oswald sits up but remains straddled atop Edward's hips. The other man, blinking blearily at the loss, tries to rise and chase his lips again, but Oswald twists a hand around his tie and pushes him back against the mattress. He smirks down at him, coyly batting his lashes in an exaggerated fashion. "My, my, you witness a little death not twenty minutes ago and all you can think of is getting off," he teases, loosening the knot of Edward's tie and slipping the fabric from his neck.

"Once again, I should clarify that it's not the actual killing that I enjoyed." Edward's eyes, still clouded with desire, manage to find Oswald's. "I just appreciated its effects on _you_." He starts to fumble at his own shirt buttons, eager to assist with the task of undressing, but Oswald knocks his hands away. He instead undoes each button with a painstaking slowness, reveling both in the inches of smooth, pale skin that are revealed and in Edward's impatient noises as he divests him of his button-up.

Oswald takes care to fully explore Edward's bare torso, pushing away the intrusive comparisons his mind conjures between the most assuredly solid man beneath his fingertips and the fantastical Riddler. Edward inadvertently helps to distract him, babbling away as Oswald's light touches raise goosebumps across his chest. "Funny that you chose the words 'little death'; _la petite mort_ is the French translation of that phrase— _oh my_." He gasps when Oswald rolls one of his nipples between his fingers, fisting the sheets at his sides, then continues breathlessly. "In modern usage it actually refers to the state of unconsciousness one might experience after a sexual release."

"Fascinating," Oswald intones distractedly, swooping forward to swirl his tongue over Edward's other nipple, laving at it with the tip of its tongue and eliciting a long sigh from the other's lips.

"It's generally interpreted to describe the sensation of post-orgasm," Edward chokes out, shuddering when Oswald's mouth leaves his skin and his thumbs drag over both of his pebbled nipples, "as likened to death."

Oswald's hands wander purposefully, descending down Edward's blush-mottled chest and sliding over the taut muscle of his stomach, and his mouth follows the same path, pulling more noises from the now shaking man below him. He grins when he reaches Edward's belt, shuffling his body back into the space between his legs and kneeling forward to place a wet kiss on the skin above his buckle.

" _La petite mort_ ," Oswald echoes, his pronunciation inexpert. "A little morbid for the bedroom, no?" He unfastens Edward's belt, makes short work of his fly, and in one swift motion, tugs both his pants and underwear down to his thighs. Edward gasps at his sudden exposure, but quickly follows Oswald's lead, wriggling slightly to help him remove the last of his clothing. 

With Edward now fully stripped, save for his muted olive socks, Oswald's mouth goes dry at the sight of his long, sinewy body and his erect cock, resting prettily on his navel like a present. Everything about him is more perfect than Oswald could have imagined, somehow more enticing than the mirror image he'd often visualize in the darkness of his room. The man is spread naked and vulnerable below him, and he can barely stop himself from descending upon him and marking every inch of him with his teeth. His cock throbs in his pants at the thought.

"I'd say we're a bit past morbid," Edward murmurs, half dismissive and half impatient, reaching up to touch Oswald, "all things considered."

Oswald smirks, batting Edward's fingers away from his shirt buttons. "Oh right, that brings us back to the beginning. When you took my hand—" He reaches down and presses his palm over the hot flesh of Edward's cock, slowly wrapping his fingers around his generous girth. "—and placed it right here." He pumps his fist experimentally, watching the other man's eyelids flutter and his lips part with a silent gasp. The sight is heavenly, an absolute vision. 

With a silent groan of his own, Oswald uses his free hand to loosen his belt and unzip his pants. He palms his erection through his briefs with the heel of his hand in time with his strokes up and down Edward's cock. He notices that the other man's gaze can't seem to pick a focus, flitting quickly between the two movements, eyes dark with lust.

"You called me luminous." Oswald quickens his pace, indulging in the overwhelming combination of his words, the not-quite-enough friction in between his legs and the beautiful image of Edward before him, panting and arching up to his touch. " _Powerful_."

"Oswald— _oh, yes!_ " Edward moans, his eyes snapping up to meet Oswald's. He rolls his hips upward and immediately breaks their eye contact, throwing his head back with a gasped cry.

Oswald watches with rapt attention, riveted by the other man's gratified display. He feels confident, proud even, urged on by Edward's needy reactions to his touch. This stunning, brilliant man underneath him is coming undone, laid bare and open, desperate and wanton, _because of him_. And, suddenly perfectly aware of the disparity between their states of undress, Oswald is impossibly powerful. 

Oswald pushes the waistband of his briefs down and pulls his aching cock out, too focused on pulling more sinful noises from Edward's lips to even think about undressing any further. He can even ignore the twinge of his right leg in favor of his throbbing member, heedlessly chasing the heat between them like a man encased in ice.

With a hiss, he angles his hips forward and gathers both of them into his right hand. He stifles a loud groan at first touch of their cocks together, but then Edward begin to undulate his hips, pushing himself up against Oswald with so absolutely delicious a friction that they both moan loudly at the sensation.

Lowering down to take the weight off his bad leg, Oswald curls himself over Edward's long, lean torso and captures his parted lips with his own, slowing his hand and swiping a thumb deliberately over the tips of their cocks. Edward lets out a startled gasp in response, thrusting his tongue out to lick insistently into Oswald's mouth. His kiss is messy, frantic and without an ounce of restraint, and it's positively excellent.

Despite his own burning arousal, Oswald maintains the leisurely pace of his hand, finding a smug satisfaction in its effect on Edward. Needy whines pour from the other man's throat, vibrating through their connected mouths, and he continues to cant his hips up into Oswald in an attempt to increase the speed. He seems to remember he has hands, and his fingers curl tightly into Oswald's hair in an almost painful grip.

Oswald lightly nips at Edward's bottom lip before disconnecting their mouths and latching onto his neck. He mouths at the bit of flesh to the left of his protruding Adam's apple, flicking his tongue out to swirl over the already heated skin. At Edward's encouraging noises, he hollows his cheeks and sucks, choosing that exact moment to move his fist faster over their cocks and feeling the undeniable slickness of precum beneath his thumb.

The sound that spills from Edward's lips is absolutely animalistic and he bares more of his throat as he presses his head back into the bed. Then, without warning, he untangles a hand from Oswald's hair and reaches down to grab him by the wrist. Oswald freezes, unsure of the motivation behind the sudden touch, and releases them both immediately. He removes his lips from Edward's neck and looks up at him questioningly. He'll stop, of course, if there's any indication that the other man might not want to continue.

But he finds that Edward's eyes don't hold a trace of hesitation or reluctance. Instead, they're nearly black with unrestrained desire, more pupil than iris. Those eyes trap Oswald in an intense stare, and with a deliberate slowness, Edward guides his hand up to his mouth. He slips Oswald's index and middle fingers past his lips, caressing and massaging them with his tongue. He pulls them out once they're thoroughly wetted and does the same with his ring and pinkie fingers, maintaining their eye contact as he sucks wetly on the digits. 

Oswald's belly curls and the remaining blood in his body shoots straight to his groin. One of these days he's going to have the man repeat those same actions between his open legs—but not now. Not when Edward is releasing his fingers and instead painting his palm with the flat of his tongue, still gazing right inside of him with those dark, hungry eyes.

When Edward finally releases his wrist, Oswald wastes no time in returning his hand in between them, resuming his grip over both of their cocks and letting a low groan escape his lips at the sweet slide his newly lubricated hand affords them. Edward is even louder now, his choked utterances of _'Oh'_ s and _'Oswald'_ s enouraging him to take on a rather vigorous speed.

Their mouths crash against each other once more and Oswald swallows Edward's breathless pants to quench the absolute thirst that seizes him. He's overcome by the sensations if his own hips thrusting, fingers squeezing, hand jerking, coupled with the solid press of Edward's quaking body against him and the litany of praises that expel from the man's bruised lips. He's nearly sobbing with need, his breath hot against Oswald's skin, and Oswald feels he must be close to the brink.

Never one to disappoint, Oswald kisses Edward fiercely on the lips before trailing back down to his neck. He worries at at the same spot he'd marked earlier, lightly using his teeth before smoothing over the reddened flesh with his tongue. He moves his fist even faster over them, making sure that each jerk of his hand ends with a twist of his wrist to drag deliciously over the heads of their cocks. Suddenly, with a strangled gasp, Edward stiffens beneath him, his hands scrabbling at the back of Oswald's shirt and then digging tightly into the flesh of his shoulders.

Eager to watch Edward come undone, Oswald lifts his upper body, propping his weight up on his left side. The man's face contorts with pleasure, eyes screwing shut behind the smudged lenses of his glasses, and his swollen lips form a perfect "o". Then, he comes with a loud cry, his cock pulsing and his seed shooting over Oswald's fingers onto his stomach. Staring down at the sublime visage Edward makes beneath him, Oswald is overwhelmed with a need to cover him with his own release and he comes hard after several more strokes, painting white lines up the other man's stomach and chest. With a loud moan, Oswald works them through their orgasms until he can feel Edward shudder from oversensitivity.

Oswald removes his hand from their spent cocks and kisses Edward soundly on the lips. The other man yields beneath him, sighing into his mouth. When they part, he looks equal parts blissful and wrecked, and pride unfurls in Oswald's chest.

Pleasantly pliant, Oswald rolls off Edward and onto the bed. He feels sweaty underneath his clothes and thanks himself for having the foresight to always come prepared with a spare outfit. Ordinarily his bloody line of work necessitates the change in clothing, but he can't deny this is a much more satisfying reason.

His eyes find the clock hung above the doorway and with a playful grin, he softly nudges Edward's side with his elbow. "You're late for our dinner."

Laboriously, Edward follows his line of vision and takes a moment to peer at the clock. Then, much to Oswald's amusement, he huffs indignantly at the time and rolls over to bury his face into Oswald's shoulder.

* * *

"How is work?" The question sounds odd to Oswald's ears. He's not sure if he's asking out of actual curiosity or mere obligation; dating is not exactly his area.

Edward doesn't seem to notice, poking cautiously at the pasta dish he'd ordered. "I can't really say, I've been suspended indefinitely," he says without preamble, studying his plate intently. There's a pause, during which Oswald scrambles to come up with some generic, sympathetic remark, but then Edward looks up with a beaming smile, gesturing at him with his fork. "I must extend my appreciation to your kitchen staff. It's rare to find a place willing to accommodate a made-to-order Bolognese request; not a single onion."

Oswald, confused, watches as Edward lowers his hand and spears his tagliatelle, twisting the long pasta into a neat swirl around the prongs of his fork. "I'll send them your regards," he replies blankly, moving automatically to cut at the steak on his plate and waiting for the other man to continue talking.

Edward swallows his food and nods appreciatively. "Did you know that ancient Egyptians believed the concentric rings and spherical shape of the onion—"

"For the love of god, Ed, wrong topic to elaborate on," Oswald interjects. "You've been suspended from the GCPD?" 

"Oh, it's nothing," Edward supplies. "I have a penchant for performing duties outside of my job description and this time it rubbed my superiors the wrong way."

Oswald arches a brow. "You did...too _much_ work? That doesn't seem like enough grounds for suspension."

"I agree! I technically work in forensics, but I examined a body without the Medical Examiner's knowledge—and well, against the Captain's direct orders—but they caught me red-handed." Edward stops suddenly and laughs, bright and cheery, lifting his unoccupied hand and spreading his fingers wide. " _Oh_. They literally caught me red-handed," he explains with another chortle, "because at the time my hand was physically inside the body." He wiggles his fingers for good measure. "Get it?"

Oswald glances between Edward's fingers and the pool of red juice that had accumulated under his medium rare cut of meat. "Yes, I get it." He takes a beat, unsure of what to make of the other man's glee. "Listen, is this whole blood thing a kink of yours? We should probably get that out in the open if we're going to continue having sex."

Edward drops his hand on the table, nearly knocking over his glass of water, and gapes. "We're going to continue having sex," he repeats, not quite a statement based on the upward lilt at the end, but also not quite an outright question.

"At the risk of sounding too forward, yes, you and I are going to continue having sex," Oswald affirms, fondly gazing at the flustered man across from him. "For as long as we're both willing participants, of course."

"It's not. I am," Edward says quickly. "That is, it's not too forward and I am a willing participant. Also, no, I do _not_ have a 'blood thing'." He makes a pinched face. "Why would you think that?"

Oswald shoots him a pointed look, an incredulous laugh bubbling from his throat. "You were aroused earlier at the bar and your extracurriculars involve performing autopsies. I don't think it's a far reach for me to say blood might excite you. Fine by me, I'm hardly the squeamish type, I've just never considered it in tandem with other bedroom activities." He shrugs, taking in the bright red blush spreading over Edward's face.

"Erm...okay, maybe I do, I'm not sure. I'm rather new at all of this, so I can't say for certain what I like," Edward confesses, his voice suddenly quiet.

Oswald's eyes narrow. "How new, if you don't mind me asking?"

Edward ducks his head to hide his embarrassment, but the tips of his ears are tinged pink. "About two nights new, if we're being honest."

"Oh," Oswald gasps, his own face flushing slightly with warmth. He can't recall a time he had been anyone's first anything; it's oddly flattering.

Edward's head snaps up and his facial expression is unmistakenly embarrassed. "It's not a big deal, Oswald, don't look at me like that. And...and I'm a very quick learner."

Oswald raises both hands up in surrender, though the gesture may have been spoiled by the fork and knife still in his grasp. "I didn't say anything! Christ, I wouldn't have known if you hadn't told me just now." He places his silverware down on his plate, gazing across the table at Edward softly. "I'm just impressed, okay? You blew my mind both times. And if we're still being honest, I admit I'm rather impressed with myself, for somehow getting you to choose me." If he wasn't blushing before, he certainly is now.

Edward's defensive expression fades to a bright fondness that's much more appropriate for his face. "It wasn't a difficult decision at all," he says earnestly. "I think you're incredible."

Oswald is touched by the sentiment, almost overwhelmed by it. He reaches for his wine glass to distract himself from the fluttering in his chest and clears his throat. "I'm sorry to hear about your suspension," he deflects carefully, choosing to return to a more neutral and much safer topic.

Edward doesn't appear to find the transition strange, swirling another bite of pasta around his fork. "It's alright, I can't imagine I'll be away for too long. If anything, a part of me is dreading the idea of returning, The main M.E. is the reason for my suspension, and when I'm back it will just be the same song and dance with him. He is a sloppy ignoramus who considers my assistance an interference. It doesn't seem to matter to him that my contributions help the GCPD close dozens of homicide cases, he just views me as a threat and a nuisance."

Oswald nods. "Someone of his authority shouldn't be so easily challenged by a colleague," he agrees.

Edward takes a sip of wine, a structured Lambrusco which pairs well with his dish and has a conveniently low alcohol content, and sighs. "It's our responsibility to bring justice to the victims, but his focus seems to be on the credit. I couldn't care less about that, I just enjoy the challenge of a good puzzle. I can't help it that I'm curious enough to act on it, or that I sometimes I come to the conclusion before him," he says, though it's without a trace of haughtiness.

"It sounds to me that this man is more the nuisance than you," Oswald observes. "Have you ever considered just getting rid of him? Perhaps taking his place?"

Edward cocks his head quizzically. "I'm not a doctor, so that's not very realistic. But in any case, that's not how the real world works, Oswald. I can't just _'get rid of him'_." He says the last bit with raised brows, tone insinuating. 

Oswald scoffs loftily. Spending so much time around the like-minded criminals of Gotham's underground has almost made him forget that most people are generally law-abiding. How inconvenient that Edward falls into the same category. "I live in the real world, too, Ed. Sometimes the circumstances are unfair, or maybe you're dealt the short end of the stick, that doesn't mean you have to accept it. I didn't get where I am today by keeping my head down and submitting. I fought and clawed every inch of the way to get what I wanted.

"A person can do whatever he'd like, he just _chooses_ not to because of some moral code of conduct, instilled by a meaningless system of rules that arbitrarily dictates right from wrong. But you and I know law and order is a farce here in Gotham. The rules only have power if you give them that power. I'm only saying, if you desire something, you have the right to pursue it, obstacles be damned. There are always ways around them, through them even."

Edward regards him closely, no doubt processing the darker implications of his speech. "I'm not a killer," he finally responds, but he doesn't verbally oppose Oswald's words otherwise.

"Of course not." Oswald lets out a bark of laughter. He can't imagine the meek man before him taking another person's life. "Murder is a crime and _you_ are not a criminal, Edward Nygma. You're a curious man, now without a vehicle for your intellectual pursuits thanks to that M.E." 

Edward deflates at the words. Oswald shrugs, but gives him a quick conspiratorial look over the rim of his wine glass before schooling his features. "Though, there are plenty of ways to do away with someone without killing them," he says vaguely, swirling his Shiraz with feigned disinterest.

After a long moment, Edward takes the bait, practically radiating with curiosity. "Such as?"

Oswald's neutral facade drops immediately and he leans in with a sly grin. "People fall from grace all the time; sometimes all they need is a little push. And what fun it is to be the pusher: manipulating people like puppets, blackmailing the ones who have the most to lose, even contriving evidence for a good old fashioned frameup. Subterfuge, cunning, deceit, call it what you want, those are the ideal tools for a man who doesn't want to get his hands dirty, so to speak."

Edward looks dubious, eyebrows furrowing as he contemplates Oswald's words. " _'Never attempt to win by force what can be won by deception'_ ," he finally says. "It's a grossly circulated misquote of Niccolò Machiavelli, as I've yet to come across it in any work of his I've read, but it certainly applies here."

Oswald smirks. "I wouldn't have taken you for a fan. I prefer his much more tantalizing _'If you need to injure someone, do it in such a way that you do not have to fear their vengeance'_. Call it a personal mantra of sorts," he says flippantly before returning his attention to his steak.

He doesn't catch the thoughtful expression on Edward's face before the man clears his throat and changes the subject with an obscure riddle.

The rest of dinner goes on without a hitch, and Oswald finds that while Edward is still a strange man with a tendency for erratic speech, their ability to converse is fairly effortless. He wonders if that says more about him than it does Edward, but he can't really complain either way. Theirs is the most stimulating interaction he's had the pleasure of enjoying in some time. He feels genuine for once, so unlike he roles he'd become so accustomed to playing: the fearful and sniveling underling, the sneaky and underhanded snitch, even the innocent and unassuming son.

Speaking of which, he still has damage control to attend to with his mother. He knows she saw him lose control at the bar, there's no doubt about that, and he must remedy the situation sooner rather than later. So with surprising reluctance, Oswald politely brings their time to an end at half past eleven. Their actual dinner settings were cleared away ages ago, but both men had been content to continue talking as the club emptied throughout the night.

With Edward now gone, following a farewell kiss so sweet that Oswald doesn't even care that half his staff was around to witness it, he returns upstairs to retrieve his clothing. He notices with mild embarrassment that someone must have come up to turnover the room during dinner; the rumpled mess of sheets he and Edward left behind earlier are now replaced with a new set of crisp, white bedding pulled tightly over the mattress.

His bloodied shirt, waistcoat and jacket are just where he'd left them, hanging behind the bathroom door, and he almost makes it back out without any interference when _he_ steps into the reflection of the mirror above the sink.

"Ozzie!" Riddler gushes, a wide smile stretched across his face. "Oh I really must commend you. What a delightful solution you've come up with."

"What solution are you talking about?" Oswald asks, briefly glancing at him in the mirror before exiting the bathroom with his clothing. He doesn't recall having any problems as of late, other than navigating the new waters of club ownership.

"The one to our Eddie dilemma, of course." Riddler is stretched out on his side across the bed, propped up on his elbow with a gloved fist supporting the weight of his head, watching Oswald with impish eyes.

"There is no dilemma with Ed," Oswald says too quickly. "Nothing's _wrong_ with Ed."

Riddler cackles, lifting his free hand to waggle his finger up at Oswald. "Oh _please_ , the man is a wet blanket. A goody two-shoes. A nerdy little virgin."

Oswald removes the wooden hangers from his clothing and drops them onto the bed. "Excuse me? I thought you liked him."

"I do! I have nothing against him." Riddler waves his hand dismissively and sits upright, crossing his impossibly long legs under him. "I'm only saying what _you're_ thinking."

"That's not what I think about him," Oswald says shortly, folding his dress shirt against his chest. "Ed is a nice man."

"And what need do you have for a nice man?" 

Oswald's hands freeze for an instant before resuming their task of smoothing down the fabric of his shirt and laying it down on the bed.

Riddler grins smugly, knowing he's hit the nail right on the head. "Unless you've started to entertain the whole 'doting husband, house with a yard, white picket fence, two-point-five kids' nightmare without my knowledge?" Oswald blanches at the mere thought, pulling another chuckle from the phantom. "Thought so. But you and I know that piece of white bread is just built for that kind of drab existence." Riddler's face scrunches in distaste. 

"He's much too soft for your world. He won't last a second with the sharks. God forbid you actually fall in love with him, he'd be your ruin. So weak, so easy to take advantage of—he would make the best pawn to take you down. For some men, love is a source of strength. But for you, it will always be your most crippling weakness. You are far better off unencumbered."

Oswald falters. It's difficult to hear the words voiced aloud by the other man, and even more difficult to admit that those very thoughts had been niggling at the back of his mind since having met Edward.

He suddenly feels foolish for thinking he'd be able to forge an actual relationship with another person, especially now that he's finally reached a small position of power. "I...I'm not going to fall in _love_ ," he spits, hurriedly turning away from Riddler's knowing gaze. His new standing is far from guaranteed; any little disturbance could unseat him and that's not a risk he's willing to take.

"Hush, you," Riddler says almost gleefully. "That leads us back to your solution. He's unsuitable for you now—but you already knew that _and_ you've taken steps to remedy it. Aren't you just a regular Henry Higgins!" He appears in front of Oswald, arms spread wide for the big reveal. "You're going to transform that squirmy caterpillar into a radiant butterfly, Ozzie, and it's going to be _delightful_. By the time you're done with him, he's going to be. Just. Like. You."

Oswald stares up at Riddler doubtfully. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

Riddler sags a bit at the underwhelming response. "Off the mark on that one? Okay, let's see then, maybe you want him to be more like _me_." He gestures theatrically at himself, sweeping his arm in a downward crescent path and raising his brows suggestively. They disappear under the brim of his bowler hat.

Oswald feels heat creep up his neck and he turns his head stubbornly, looking anywhere else than at the Riddler.

"Shy all of a sudden?" Riddler simpers. "You weren't this bashful four hours ago. Or have you already forgotten your little power trip up here? Getting off on your own _luminosity_ —"

"Shut it!" Oswald snaps, whirling around to scowl at the other man.

"Too far?" Riddler fixes him with a shit-eating grin and holds his hands up in mock surrender. "Yep, too far. I'm not sorry, this is just too fun. But what I _mean_ is that you, my feathery friend, are going to turn that jittery, nervous loser into something more, something _beautiful_. You see there's potential inside of him, you know what he can become—with your guidance, of course."

Oswald exhales slowly. His mind flashes back to two nights ago, when a very loose-lipped Edward regaled him with a breathless and worshipful retelling of the Penguin's own unscrupulous dealings. He'd been so eager and adoring, like a puppy, but every now and then his eyes sparkled with something else, something curious and dark. Even this evening, the man had taken his hand and revealed his very obvious interest in a much more sinister side of Oswald before giving himself up to his baser instincts on the very bed not two feet away.

Despite this, Oswald shakes his head vehemently. Edward is a fine, albeit odd, man somehow unsullied by the wicked city in which he resides. It's a rare thing in Gotham, and he can't be the one to ruin it. "I'm not interested in a sidekick," he bites out, rolling his eyes. "And I have no plans to tarnish Ed's sterling reputation."

"Ugh, spare me." Riddler frowns at him in that strange way Oswald dislikes, with his lips downturned but his teeth bared. "Remember _'Have you ever considered just getting rid of him'_? Or how about _'There are plenty of ways to do away with someone without killing them'_? You're planting seeds all over the place and nothing about it is remotely graceful. You're lucky the guy probably considers car salesmen honest, genuine individuals."

"What, I can't have an innocent conversation anymore without having ulterior motives?" Oswald sneers, then shuts his mouth with an audible clack. In his experience, the answer to that question is most assuredly _No_.

Riddler arches a brow, having come to the same conclusion as Oswald. "Not a sidekick then, obviously. A partner. An _equal_ ," he breathes the word enticingly, his voice low and husky.

Oswald can't deny the appeal of the idea. And more than that, there's something shamefully alluring about Edward stepping into the ghostly shoes of the Riddler, embodying him in the physical world in a way Oswald had never thought possible.

"You can finally have what you always wanted," Riddler voices, latching onto Oswald's train of thought greedily.

This conversation is the closest the other has ever come to addressing those less than innocent nighttime fantasies Oswald's mind sometimes created, and it forces him to set his jaw and cross his arms to offset the resulting embarrassment. Defensively, he juts out his chin and meets the Riddler's sly leer with his own hard gaze. "Whatever you're thinking, just stop it. I'm not going to debase Ed just because I'm...alone. It wouldn't be right."

Riddler stares at him, unmoved. Then, his face breaks out in a smile that is all teeth. "Of course not, Oswald. Because you follow a _'moral code of conduct'_ and all." With that last taunt, he disappears, burrowing back into a corner of Oswald's mind and leaving a sour taste in his mouth with his leave.

The silence in the room is uncomfortably noticeable and Oswald breathes out a heavy sigh to fill the space, letting his arms drop down to his sides. He's torn, tempted by the possibility that he might actually be able to have it all but reluctant to pull the unexpecting Edward into the darkness of it all. It would feel like cheating to manipulate him, he decides, and when it comes to matters of the heart he wants to be deserving, to earn his rewards.

With slow movements, Oswald picks up his stack of neatly folded, bloodstained clothing and shuffles to the door. He spares one last glance back at the bed he and Edward shared just earlier that night, their little deaths erased by the tidy, orderly lines of the new bed linens, then flicks off the light and exits the room.

He doesn't entertain the notion often, having always considered it too far out of his reach, but what he wants most dearly, in tandem with the power, the respect, the notoriety, is simply someone to share it with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for your continued support! It warms my little gremlin heart to see that there's interest in this fic, and I love you all. I dumped the second chapter four days after the first, and this one ended up taking three times as long to write, so thank you all as well for your patience :')
> 
> This installment is brought to you courtesy of two weeks' worth of white wine, Truly lemonades, and Jagermeister cold brew—the latter being a surprisingly delightful discovery, and every bit as questionable as you might assume.


	4. The Prince

Day three of Edward's suspension drags on at a snail's pace. Despite not having to be up early for work, he wakes to the sound of his alarm, goes about his typical morning routine, prepares a modest but nutritional breakfast, organizes his records by musical genre, fixes the leak in his bathroom sink faucet, reorganizes his records by frequency of use, and cleans the apartment. After stowing away the broom and other cleaning supplies in the utility closet, he checks the time and is appalled to find it is only eleven o'clock.

He's barely halfway through the week, and the lack of stimulation is already becoming too much to bear. There are only so many books he can read, video games he can play, and documentaries he can watch before he combusts. How long is indefinite, anyway?

Edward has half a mind to text Oswald and urge him to instigate a gang war. With a surplus of bodies, the Captain couldn't possibly justify keeping him suspended.

The thought is humorous but unrealistic, and not to mention rather improper. 

Edward finds himself frequently distracted by improper thoughts as of late. Bedroom thoughts, mostly—it really can't be helped considering the suddenness of his recent explicit exploits, especially after spending his adult life embarrassingly celibate. Now it's as if a floodgate has been opened, and the smallest things remind him of Oswald's mouth, Oswald's hands, Oswald's eyes. Just looking at a bottle of wine makes his heart race and face flush with heat. It's mortifying, but he assures himself that he'll get used to it. He simply needs to acclimate to his new status of 'sexually active'; more exposure will certainly help with that endeavor.

And there it is again, the tightening of his pants at the mere notion of _more exposure_. Edward shakes his head to dispel the thoughts.

He hasn't seen Oswald since their dinner on Saturday, though they've since exchanged a few texts, trivial and superficial little things. 

(>> _Did you know that house flies hum in the key of F?_  
<< _No, I didn't know that_

<< _Say, what are your thoughts on me establishing a weekday happy hour to bolster business at the club?_  
>> _It's a highly efficient business practice_  
>> _On a related note, the Intoxicating Liquor Act of 2003 made happy hours illegal in Ireland_  
<< _It's a good thing this is Gotham, then)_

Neither of them have broached the subject of their next dinner—date?—and Edward can't shake the bone-deep anxiety that rattles within him. He extended the last invitation, surely it's Oswald's turn next. So does it mean something that Oswald has yet to try and schedule something for them? Perhaps he's come to his senses and regrets having allowed Edward into his life and his bed. Is the man trying to distance himself, choosing neutral, impersonal topics in an attempt to reflect his attitude toward Edward? 

Unless it's the case that Edward had unwittingly taken on the role of initiator and it's now his duty to continue suggesting each of their rendezvous. And if so, has he waited too long to make the next move—or, is it still too early? The pressure is insurmountable, as if one wrong move will completely destroy the tentative bond between them. He can't afford to ruin this, not when Oswald has made his home inside of Edward's brain, permeating his every waking second.

It's incessant thoughts like these that make him wish he was back at work. This _thing_ between him and Oswald is irritably unreasoned and imprecise, indefinable and daunting.

Homicides have much clearer answers; while not always straightforward at first glance, crime scenes and bodies can always be dissected, analyzed and explained. There is a neat, perfect logic to it all, and Edward excels in fitting the pieces together, in making sense of the moving parts, in deciphering the puzzles left behind by killers. When he puts his mind to a case, everything else irrelevant fades away. He's endured whole work days without eating, too absorbed with tests, focused on experiments, engrossed in analysis and finally sated with discoveries. The cruel taunts and biting jabs of his colleagues have flown right over his head, there being simply not enough room to inhabit his thoughts with his mind already going a mile a minute over research.

Edward could really use the distraction right now, if not to divert his thoughts from—his friend? sexual partner? lover?—Oswald, then just to save him from the utter boredom of his small apartment and the insufficient recreations it provides.

He can't shake the petulant feeling that his circumstances weren't fair.

He'd gone against the Captain's orders, sure. But as Edward examined Jodowsky's corpse, feeling around his insides and expertly identifying organs by mere touch and placement, he'd discovered that the adrenal glands had been taken. He wasn't given a chance to share his findings, and as he skimmed the _Gazette_ not three days later he read with bitter satisfaction that said missing organ was the key to catching the culprit, Dr. Gerald Crane. 

Today's paper includes a small follow-up to the case, reporting that the doctor's son, Jonathan Crane, was admitted to Arkham Asylum. It goes on to assure the reader that the trusted physicians and psychiatrists there will do their absolute best to rehabilitate their new patient and are confident he will return to the bright young man he was before his forced inoculation. The article makes Edward queasy.

He regrets having been so careless in the M.E.'s office that day. He knew Guerra's start time, but between his frazzled state of mind after successfully scheduling dinner with Oswald and his laser focus on the victim, he'd let time get the better of him and the other man was then able to out him to Captain Essen. He was a pest, truly.

Edward wonders how long it took Guerra to actually put the work in and come to the same conclusion about the adrenal glands. He's certain the man had dragged his feet, not wanting to humor Edward's theories by actually delving into the corpse with the same gusto.

Perhaps if he hadn't been sidelined, and if he had been given the chance to explain himself, Detectives Gordon and Bullock would have solved the case sooner. Perhaps Crane could have been peacefully apprehended instead of shot, and his son could have avoided being dosed with his experimental and dangerous concoction of distilled cortisol.

Edward loathes Guerra's animosity against him, now more than ever. He does good work, he _helps_ people, propriety and red tape be damned. But the other man remains firmly opposed to his attempts.

He just wishes something can be done.

And then, in an instant of jarring clarity, Oswald's words echo in between his ears, spoken in a soft, secretive, seductive way.

_"If you desire something, you have the right to pursue it."_

Well, of course something can be done. Or rather, Edward can do something.

How many times had Guerra berated and disrespected him? How many sneers and haughty comments had he tossed in Edward's direction?

And how many times had Edward pursed his lips, lowered his gaze, and taken it?

_"There are plenty of ways to do away with someone without killing them."_

Dr. Lee Thompkins is a perfectly qualified Medical Examiner, and there is no doubt in Edward's mind that she would fill the role of head M.E. with tact, grace, and a marked lack of hostility toward him.

It's unlikely, however, that she'd want to unseat Guerra. She's too agreeable, too well meaning.

So it's up to Edward to orchestrate his resignation.

_"People fall from grace all the time; sometimes all they need is a little push."_

Edward plucks a pen and legal pad from atop his piano and seats himself at the dining table, head whirring with half-formed ideas and hand scrawling hastily across the page.

* * *

A couple hours later, Edward parks his car behind the GCPD building and exhales as he removes the keys from the ignition. He can't deny the boyish excitement that surges through him, his heart fluttering rapidly in his chest with electrified anticipation. He steps out of the vehicle and surveys the building, eyes honing in on the back entrance and hand drifting down to lightly touch the bulge in his pocket from the lockpick set resting there. Dr. Guerra employs a simple padlock for his locker; he's sure he won't even break a sweat picking it.

The plan is simple: walk into the GCPD, break into Guerra's locker, place his anonymous, threatening letter (worded very strongly!) calling for the man's resignation inside, walk out.

With a resolute nod to himself, he locks the car door and steps off the sidewalk with an air of determination.

Then, in a move which is entirely characteristic of Edward Nygma, he is struck with a sudden wave of incapacitating doubt which leaves him paralyzed in the street.

It's one thing to rant and rave at the circumstances in his head or brainstorm half-cocked ideas inside the safety of his apartment, but it's another thing to actually bring a plan to fruition. Edward has never done anything like this before—he's never even fathomed he'd be capable of something this underhanded. Sure, a menacing note leaves a lot to be desired when compared to a Penguin scheme, but it's still far out of his comfort zone. He's never had to threaten someone to get his way.

And now that he thinks about it, it's actually a horrible idea. First of all, he has no means by which to back up his threats. Second of all, they work at a police precinct and the letter could easily be traced back to him. Third of all, this just isn't who Edward is.

He's the butt of everyone's jokes but grins and bears it, he gets his files knocked out of his hands by a rushing officer and apologizes for having gotten in the way, he's urgently sent to a scene at the tail end of his shift and still somehow gets reprimanded for the unauthorized overtime. He's just mild, amenable Ed, incapable of standing up for himself—let alone actually _sabotaging_ someone.

"Oh, Mr. Nygma, hello."

Edward is pulled from his self-deprecating assessments by the sound of his name, spoken in a startled, feminine voice. Taking in his surroundings, he realizes his feet have taken him to a park not too far from the GCPD.

He turns to the source of the voice and spots a shock of red hair, equally surprised to come upon the company of Ms. Kringle someplace other than their workplace. Edward has to admit it's a bit peculiar to see the woman without the customary backdrop of her (poorly organized) filing cabinets, or amongst the hustle and bustle of the bullpen with a stack of folders tucked in her arms. 

He must be staring, because Ms. Kringle makes a soft noise and averts her gaze nervously. It's only then that he notices her red-rimmed eyes and the dark smudges of black mascara on her eyelids, almost hidden behind the shield of her glasses.

Immediately, Edward takes a step closer to her, tilting his head down to survey more of her face. "Ms. Kringle, have you been crying?"

"No, no, I'm fine," she assures him half-heartedly, taking a step back to distance them again.

"Would you...like to talk about it?" The words sound as uncomfortable as Edward feels. He wants to help, of course, but he has little experience with crying women.

Ms. Kringle's doubtful eyes find his, and after a long, silent moment during which Edward braces for the inevitable _"It's none of your business"_ , her face crumples. "It's Arnold—er, Detective Flass. He's been released and for some reason he's back at work. He seems to think he and I will just go back to where we left off when he was arrested. I told him that it's over between us, and he said some rather hurtful things to retaliate. I just...had to step away."

Bristling with anger, Edward shakes his head vehemently. "I always knew the man was an imbecile. He's just, he's such a bad, bad, _bad_ —" He catches himself and lets out a heated breath. "Ms. Kringle, you deserve so much better than that overgrown primate. I'm sorry he put you through that, really."

Ms. Kringle's eyes well up with tears and she does her best to blink them away, staring at Edward with unrestrained astonishment. "Please, you're being too kind. I feel like, uh, I owe you the apology. I feel as though I've been nothing but mean to you. You don't need to defend, me or try to make me feel better."

Edward tilts his head quizzically. "I don't think that's fair. I feel like all I've ever done is annoy you." Unintentionally, of course, but he knows enough to acknowledge that sometimes his presence isn't all too welcome. He's been told this by a number of his work colleagues, in a variety of colorful ways, but Ms. Kringle at least tried to mask her displeasure during their limited interactions.

Ms. Kringle blinks, looking down at her hands guiltily. "I admit, I've always found you a bit odd, but you obviously don't mean any harm by it. I've been unfair, and I'm sorry." When Edward stiltedly waves away her apology, she heaves a long-suffering sigh. "And thank you for your concern, Mr. Nygma, truly. I'm just so frustrated with myself. I can't believe it's taken me this long to realize there are far better men in the world than Arnold Flass."

"You can't blame yourself. Sometimes with men you need to—" Edward struggles for words. "—read between the lines." He's sure his platitude is entirely unhelpful. He'd read it off the front cover of a women's health magazine while in the check-out line at the market last week.

Ms. Kringle pulls a face in response, but the mood is lightened by her small giggle. "Sometimes with men you need a drink."

It happens that it's the middle of the afternoon and a cafe is a much more appropriate setting than a bar. It's Ms. Kringle who takes Edward by surprise and suggests that they grab a cup of coffee together. Flabbergasted, he agrees and finds himself with a steaming latte clutched in both hands, sitting across the usually reserved archivist and listening to her gripe about her ex-boyfriend with increasing aggravation. He learns, by no provocation of his own, about Flass' predilection for trashy reality television, his affinity for French maid roleplay—as if she would ever agree to that!—and a number of other discomfiting things.

Ms. Kringle is about to start on his inability to hold an erection with even a drop of tequila in his system when Edward finally forces himself to place his hand facedown on the table's surface between them in what he hopes is a placating, and silencing, gesture. He is glad she's choosing to confide in him, but perhaps some things are better left unspoken. Especially when they have to do with Detective Flass' penis. "Ms. Kringle, er..."

Catching herself, Ms. Kringle's face reddens and she takes a hasty sip of coffee. Her eyes find Edward's over the top of her mug, and after a beat, they both burst out laughing.

The glassiness has left Ms. Kringle's eyes and they're now shining with a soft fondness that is completely foreign to Edward. "Well, now that you've caught me crying and let me unload all of my problems on you, I think we can do away with the formalities. Kristen," she offers.

Edward smiles, wide and unguarded. "Edward. Ed," he responds. In another life he might have swooned at the privilege of being on a first-name basis with Ms. Kringle, but all he feels now is a pleasant self-assuredness coursing through him. He's made a friend.

"That's probably quite enough of my pity party, Ed. And we still need to continue our conversation from Friday," Kristen says, her eyes now gleaming and her brows raised, making no attempts at subtlety. "You and Penguin: what's the story there?"

"Ah, about that..." Edward doesn't know what there is to say. The story is that Edward is infatuated with a man he'd only met last week, but obsessively researched beforehand, and that man may or may not be interested in him as well, though he's unsure of how to define the relationship other than with the crude status of 'continuing to have sex', because Edward has no previous experience with romantic relationships, or even physical relationships at that, and there's no way he can bring it up in conversation with him because he doesn't want to seem foolish or desperate compared to Oswald, the epitome of cool and casual, but who still answers his riddles and quotes Machiavelli and smiles at him with eyes that cut him open like glass.

"Wow, okay, there is a lot to unpack here."

Edward's head jerks up from his latte and he realizes with horror that he'd said all of that aloud. He swallows roughly and stares at Kristen, who is trying and failing to hide a wide grin behind her fingers. "Oh my."

Kristen can't hold back the laugh that bubbles from her throat, but she reaches out and places a hand over his in a mollifying manner. "Ed, you are a right mess," she gushes. She squeezes lightly before removing her hand and adjusting her glasses with a quick nod. "Luckily for you, I love to play matchmaker."

"You would help me?" Edward's voice betrays his giddy relief.

"Someone has to," she deadpans, and he ducks his head again. "I'm kidding! Dating is complicated, I get it; just look at my track record." Kristen crinkles her nose distastefully. "But I'd like to help anyway."

"I don't even know the first step here," Edward confesses. "Full disclosure, I can't even say for sure that we're _dating_. The only reason we got to where we are now is because we drank whiskey at his club and I drunkenly invited him to my apartment...and then one thing led to another."

Kristen's eyes are as wide as saucers. "Are you serious? That is the _funniest_ thing I've ever heard—basically pulled straight out of a bad coming of age rom-com." She lets out a little laugh, shaking her head in disbelief. "There is something else going on behind those glasses and that haircut, Edward Nygma, and I'm digging it. Alright, so it seems like you're in danger of being just a 'booty call' when you want something more, am I right?"

Wait, what's wrong with his haircut? Booty call? Edward's head is reeling and he finds himself nodding for lack of a better response.

"The obvious answer here is that you need to tell him you're interested in an actual relationship. But, I'm guessing that's not going to happen any time soon, based on that scandalized look on your face. Ugh, men are terrible at expressing themselves." Kristen's fingers drum absently on the table's surface and she hums thoughtfully. "So here's our solution: you're just going to have to romance him. Get him to fall for you. Easy as pie."

Edward purses his lips and fixes her with an incredulous look. "If it were that easy I would have done it already," he bites out, feeling heat at the tips of his ears.

"Practice makes perfect," Kristen insists. "You're just not used to it, but that's what I'm here for. Go on then." She taps the table twice with the tip of her index finger, commanding. "Woo me! Show me what you've got."

Edward feels foolish, but he furrows his brows in thought anyway, trying to pull something clever and romantic from the recesses of his mind. He glances around the cafe and his eyes find the display case of pastries and treats. Struck with inspiration, he grins at Kristen and gestures at the case. "Okay, so I would purchase a cupcake. Red velvet, to match your hair."

She smiles back, nodding encouragingly.

"Then, I would take a bullet and press it into the frosting. It's a riddle!"

Kristen's pleasant expression disappears immediately, her face twisting with disapproval. She opens her mouth to respond, then closes it again and knits her brows together. After another long moment, she finally blurts, "That is menacing and weird _and_ inedible."

Edward deflates. "But...the cupcake is sweet, the bullet is deadly: a beautiful woman's a dangerous thing."

Kristen stares at him with wide, bewildered eyes. "Um, it's a nice sentiment. But I think you can work on your delivery. Riddles aren't the best vehicle for compliments, especially if they can't be cracked easily."

"Oswald is excellent at answering my riddles," Edward supplies.

"It sounds as though you've found your match then." Kristen's smile is tinged with a fond exasperation. "Even so, maybe stick with the token of affection aspect. The red velvet was a sweet touch, sans the bullet."

Edward nods thoughtfully. "A male gentoo penguin will court a female by presenting her with the smoothest, most perfect pebble he can find."

Kristen quirks her brow at him, unimpressed. "Well despite his little codename, you're humans. A thoughtful keepsake, maybe, based off an inside joke, a shared interested, something personal between you, whatever. Or, what does he like?"

Superficially, Edward knows Oswald at the very least likes his club, whiskey, steak and red wine. And reducing Edward to a babbling, begging mess—no, reel that train of thought in.

Oswald also likes the infamy of the Penguin and the power that it affords him. He likes building and problem-solving; pulling strings in the darkness and watching the disastrous effects of his expert unraveling; taking his enemies by surprise and spitting in the faces of the people who've underestimated him; insinuating himself into the belly of the criminal underworld and gaining strength with each cunning move. Edward can't possibly give Oswald any of those more substantial things.

But, Oswald thrives on the idea of power. And if power is measured by influence, surely Edward can give him that. He just has to think of a way to pay homage to the man, to show him that his efforts have taken root far beyond just his criminal dealings.

Edward has already been pulled deeply into the other's orbit, swallowed his every word like life-giving water, breathed in the molecules that make up Oswald and committed them to his own DNA. Would it stroke the man's ego, feed into his hungry arrogance, fill him with a heady, self-serving pride, to know that he has fundamentally changed Edward Nygma?

And perhaps if Oswald recognizes even just a little bit of himself in Edward, if he can see more than just the meek, insecure man who hides behind riddles, he'll be swayed to take him seriously, to consider him a suitable romantic partner.

Unconsciously his hand starts to gravitate toward the letter tucked in his jacket's inner breast pocket, but he halts the movement when Kristen catches his eye. He flashes her a grin, quick and strained, and then chuckles nervously. "Kristen, you are a lifesaver. I have an idea, but I should get started right away. Would you like me to walk you back to work?"

Kristen drains the last of her coffee and nods, standing up and smoothing down her skirt. "Sure, it's about time I got back. It's definitely been a bit more hectic since you've been gone, I can tell you that. They've even got Dr. Guerra in the field, can you believe it? As I was leaving earlier I noticed him packing his materials and following after Detective Alvarez. He looks so out of place in a CSU jacket."

Edward fakes a laugh, picking up both of their mugs and depositing them in a tray by the door. "You don't say? I can't even imagine it."

Kristen continues on, catching him up on what he's missed the past several days as they walk back toward the GCPD, but Edward's thoughts are elsewhere.

It's obvious his hastily scribbled letter won't suffice. _Resign, or else._ What kind of an homage would that be? He needs something better, a gift truly worthy of the man's caliber, an act so artful and clever that Oswald will have no choice but to feel pride at being the muse behind it.

Edward thinks back to Oswald's examples from their dinner. He doesn't know enough about Guerra to manipulate him into resigning, and it would take too long to dig up any dirt on him, so that takes blackmail off the table.

A frameup seems like the most feasible option, though he acknowledges it's the most harmful as well. That would result in the man's termination, rather than a resignation, and there's potential for actual punishment as well, depending on the act. 

_People should either be caressed or crushed._

Edward realizes with a strange sense of detachment that he's not as concerned about those results as he probably should be. It's Guerra, after all. He flashes back to his brainstorm session earlier in the morning, recalling the rage that burned hot through him in the moment and nearly snorting out loud at his laughable attempt at revenge. A threatening letter, really? 

_If you do them minor damage they will get their revenge; but if you cripple them there is nothing they can do._

Edward, brimming with years of repressed indignation, ready to spill his rancor like hot, molten lava, can do so much better. For Oswald, he can create something equal parts brilliant and destructive.

_If you need to injure someone, do it in such a way that you do not have to fear their vengeance._

With a perfectly friendly farewell, Edward parts ways with Kristen at the front entrance of the GCPD. She waves and smiles at him brightly, completely unaware of the devious plan forming in his mind.

He forgoes the side alley and walks all the way around the block to return to his car. Edward swaps his suit jacket for his lab coat, deciding hiding in plain sight is his best route, and catalogues his next steps.

The M.E.'s office has the only bone saw in the building, but with Guerra out on a scene, it shouldn't be too difficult to get his hands on it. There are some John/Jane Does scheduled to be shipped to the morgue extension, having been unidentified for too long with their cases unsolved. If he can snag a few—or pieces of them at least—he'll have his ammunition. The lockpick set remains safely in his pocket and he's already established the location of Guerra's locker, but he knows he'll have to be quick once he slips into the locker room.

He needs to get in and out of the building, as well as navigate between three separate rooms, all without catching anyone's attention or being detected. Luckily for Edward, that's something he happens to excel at. With a furtive glance in both directions, he crosses the street and sets the plan in motion.

Less than half an hour later, Edward ducks back out of the rear entrance of the building. He is silent as he strides to his car, silent as he drives the winding route home, and silent as unlocks the door to his apartment.

When he finally slides the door shut behind him, a shrill, uproarious laugh pierces through the air. As he struggles to catch his breath, he's shocked to find the sound is coming from _him_ , bursting from his diaphragm and spilling from his mouth in uncontrollable, hysterical waves.

The laughter convulses throughout his body and reverberates in the space between his ears, stretching his lips across his face in a wild, manic smile.

God, he feels _good_.

* * *

The next morning, Edward reads the paper with a wide, self-satisfied grin. 

_GCPD Medical Examiner Sacked for Stealing Body Parts_   
_More on page 5_

He did it; he really pulled it off, and without a single hitch. He was even spared from having to desecrate any bodies, as he'd fortuitously come upon a container of assorted limbs tucked away and presumably forgotten about.

Guerra is gone—humiliated, blacklisted, ruined—and it's just a matter of time before Edward receives the call from Captain Essen reinstating him.

And Oswald was right: it really _was_ fun. Perhaps not in the moment, when he shakily filled an evidence case with severed arms and legs or when sweat accumulated inside of his gloves as he fumbled with picking Guerra's padlock or when his his heart hammered in his chest at the possibility of being caught planting body parts in the man's locker—but it was all worth it for the aftermath, the exhilarating feeling of having _gotten away with it_.

Even the sense of triumph he feels now, seeing his efforts immortalized in print, is euphoric, fulfilling, _addicting_. 

Edward wastes no time in sharing his victory with Oswald. This is, of course, his valentine to the man, a small token showing him that his words had been heard, valued, and acted upon. He needs Oswald to know just what he'd inspired in him, to learn what delightful and clever plan was hatched because of him. He pulls out his phone and fires out a text.

>> _"The vulgar crowd always is taken by appearances, and the world consists chiefly of the vulgar"_

<< _What is that from?_

>> _I await a heavy hat to put on my head; my full powers come when my makers are dead. What am I?_

<< _Hmm, you are a prince. And why are we quoting Machiavelli today?_

>> _It seemed fitting. I took your advice from dinner, kept my hands clean:_  
>> _https://www.gothamgazette.com/crime/1OlKiW-TfU/GCPD-Medical-Examiner-Sacked_

Oswald doesn't text back for some time, presumably reading through the article.

<< _HA! This is certainly unexpected. I didn't think you had it in you_

>> _It's all thanks to you_

<< _For the sheer sake of continuity, here's another one for you: “Everyone sees what you appear to be, few experience what you really are”_  
<< _So just what are you, Edward Nygma?_

Edward imagines Oswald wrote out that last text with a toying smirk, eyes sparkling devilishly. He wants to answer _"Yours"_ , because it's the truth, but he decides against it. With an entirely foreign flirtatious air, he replies back, short and simple:

>> _Free for dinner Friday night_

<< _We have that in common_  
<< _I'm in dire need of a change of scenery, though. I refuse to spend another evening at the club_

>> _Lucky for you I love to cook_  
>> _Chez moi. I'll pick you up at 7:00pm_

Edward is interrupted by the melody of his ringtone: _Captain Sarah Essen, GCPD_. Pasting on a false smile, he accepts the call and raises the phone up to his ear.

"Captain, hello! Yes, yes I did see the story this morning. Absolutely, such grisly news, so incredibly unexpected. I'm just as surprised as you are. Who would have thought? Of course, I can be back in tomorrow. Fantastic, looking forward to it. Thank you, until then. Good-bye."

At the sound of the dial tone, a smug smirk creeps over Edward's face, amplified only by an incoming text from Oswald.

<< _Sounds perfect_

Then, a minute later:

<< _It's a date_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I'm dying. My Instagram explore algorithm picked up on my recent need for all things nygmobblepot, except it just decided to generalize it and offer me tons of other gay television boys. My feed is filled with SO MUCH Gallavich, which is great, except for the fact that _I have never seen a single episode of Shameless in my life_. Insta was like, "oh you watch a show for the gay villains? and your show has Cameron Monaghan in it? say no more". 
> 
> Anyway, I guess I've got to watch Shameless now, because honestly, vibes.
> 
> That aside: I have a quick question. Apparently I've written 22k words...but am only 4 chapters in. Would y'all prefer if I posted shorter chapters more frequently, or is it preferable to maintain long chapters with a longer wait time in between? I'd love to hear your thoughts~


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